


Savior's in the Details

by PaperAnn



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, American Politics, Angst with a Happy Ending, Assassins & Hitmen, Awkward Romance, Awkwardness, Canon-Typical Violence, Comedy of Errors, Dark Comedy, Dean/Cas Big Bang 2019 (Supernatural), Drunken Shenanigans, Fluff and Smut, Inappropriate Humor, M/M, Murder Husbands, Mutual Pining, Romantic Comedy, Sexual Tension, Slow Build Castiel/Dean Winchester, Slow Burn, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, With A Twist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-12-17 17:21:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 70,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21058139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaperAnn/pseuds/PaperAnn
Summary: If Dean was anything, he was stubborn: the means didn’t matter, as long as The Mission was achieved.His purpose: serving, protecting, and putting his life on the line for the sake of others.Fresh out of high school, he enlisted. During his time with the Marines, Dean found himself and happily discovered public service was his calling. After the military, he didn’t miss a beat, joining the police force. Dean knew he wanted more and, combined with his brother’s urging, he poured every spare second into his education. After fighting like hell, he joined the CIA.But then Dean’s life changed. And it sucked. Flipping through online job listings wasn’t cutting it, so Sam offered another suggestion.Except, after hearing the pitch...this job sounded too good to be true. The damn contract weighed more than Dean could bench press! After the fiftieth page, he’d zoned out and lost interest. The read was boringly ordinary: the gig was right up his alley.When Sam vouched for the legitimacy, Dean saw freedom. An escape from mundane life. His chance back into the field—a golden opportunity!He was so fucking wrong. Within five minutes on his first day, Dean knew he’d made a horrible mistake.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> HAPPY DCBB 2019 EVERYONE!
> 
> This year was amazing! I loved every second working with the fantastic [telltaleofthestars](http://telltaleofthestars.tumblr.com/), who's not only a next-level artist, but an inspiring and AMAZING person!
> 
> All the love goes out to my wifey [Fishie](http://whataboutthefish.tumblr.com/) who I cannot live without, for her support, beta skills and existence <3
> 
> 2019 has been a grueling year from January 1st. I haven't been able to write as much as I've wanted to and my schedule has been non-stop, so writing and posting this fic has been a huge accomplishment for me. This work, from start to finish, was a story that made me happy and I had so much fun along the way: I hope when read, the same feeling comes across.
> 
> As a disclaimer (I couldn't find the right tags to explain what I could better fit into a note): this is a dark romantic comedy and much of the content is current political conversation/issues that have been going on/developed over the course of when I wrote it. If you get anxiety or feel uncomfortable around the current political climate (and what I intended to be a parody/mockery at the outrageous happenings here in the US) you may want to think it over/test the waters before committing.
> 
> Other than that, I truly hope you enjoy the story! Personally, I really needed a small victory.
> 
> THANK YOU DCBB MODS, as always: you go above and beyond for this challenge and participants! All the love! xoxo

  
  
It had been a long time coming since Dean was back on the job.

Well, not back on _the_ job, but back on _a_ job.

In all honesty, the last couple years of his life had been a whole lot of misses with very few hits to back them up.

He’d only known life as a ‘good soldier.’ Fresh outta high school, he’d joined the service and found himself during his time with the Marines. More specifically, found out who he _wasn’t_ while serving with the Marine. Being handed a mission and carrying it out, by any means necessary, resonated.

This calling to achieve the greater good for those who couldn’t protect themselves made sense. Serving, being able to risk it all where others proved too weak—Dean’s dedication to completing a mission was a talent not many others had, he prided himself on it.  
  
Whether he was a dumbass or a hero was up for debate.

Dean’s ambition had him aching to fly up the ladder—what could he say?—he’d always been an adrenaline junkie and pushing boundaries for 'the greater good' felt fuckin’ awesome. That’s why after the military, he’d stuck in the government niche—a group he trusted and respected.

With his sights set high, and with Sam’s encouragement (Dean considered himself to be the muscle rather than the brains) he put himself on course for a dream he never thought possible.   
  
There was nothing quite like his little brother’s voice in his head, urging him, “You’re smarter than you think. You never give yourself enough credit.” as his personal cheerleader.  
  
Instead of calling it a day when he got a job in the PD, Dean fought harder. On the clock, he got paid to arrest bad guys. Any free time when he _should’ve_ been sleeping, he was in class, living at the library, or cramming in all-night study sessions with gallons of Redbull.  
  
Goddammit, he fought for it, and when he finally landed a gig in the CIA: the feeling was indescribable.

This kinda pride was...pure. Both he and Sam were proud of him, he’d stuck it out when school had never been his thing and proved—just maybe—he was worth more than he thought.

And, fucking hell, he was _so_ into it. Once Dean relocated his life exploded into a grand new chapter he loved every second of implementing the brain he didn’t even know he had with the muscle he’d honed for years. Until ‘it’ happened.

Doesn’t matter what it was, it came it went, it conquered and made Dean it’s bitch.  
  
Dean bought the fuckin’ t-shirt and he was out with his glorified ‘Purple Heart’ and his dreams crashing down around him. Reality was a rude awakening.

Time passed painfully slow as he healed. Bitterness took hold and Dean eventually resolved he was done with that jazz. He’d never be able to pick up where he left off, his reason for being was over and done with.  
  
His days were filled with lounging around the house, grousing in self-pity, Netflix-binges, and trying to figure out what the flying fuck he was gonna do with the rest of his life. A lesser man would’ve stopped and called it good, right then and there.

Cue the record scratch, dramatic zoom, cheesy grin and a, “What do I gotta work for?”

His ‘severance package’ was _exceptional_. Technically, so long as Dean budgeted, he wouldn’t need to work another day in his life! Like hell, that’d work out. Dean wasn’t that guy. _Being_ a loser would kill him before another injury that _led to him_ being that friggin loser—

Once he was in decent shape, he began flipping through websites.

Dude...job applications? Were _ weird_.

Normally, he’d show up, complete a physical test, nail his firearm and aptitude skill assessment and call it a day. This shit was tricky in a different way. The more listings he looked through, the more he didn’t like a goddamn thing he saw.

See, Dean wanted what he _ had_. Without the employer. And the…other shit.

He liked having a mission, a task, an assignment: a direction.  
  
He missed the thrill from any high-stakes and threat of danger that was bound to happen along the way. The physicality of being present and remaining cool under pressure gave him a rush that couldn’t be replicated. Especially inside a fuckin’ cubical. Outside the norm was where he excelled!   
  
How the actual hell did you include _ that _ on a job application without looking like a loose canon? Or some kind of adrenaline-junkie, complete with an assault weapon stash in his basement—   
  
—Or _ worse_?

During his hours of scrolling, nothing sparked his interest. It looked like ‘saving the world’ or ‘devilishly handsome saviors’ weren’t in high demand on Craigslist. Or maybe some other sonuvabitch had answered the call before Dean could find it!

Nothing. Nada. Not even an itty-bitty flicker of anything could pique his interest, when Dean wanted full-blown arson-level shit.

The hole he’d tumbled into continued to dig itself deeper and deeper, his quarter-life-crisis was looking damn near fatal.

Until a conversation with Sam.

God, he loved his little brother. He didn’t know what he’d do without him.  
  
He’d dropped by, unannounced and saw firsthand what a mess he was. Over the phone, Dean could put on a good show and fake it, but since the little bitch had pulled a fast one, Dean couldn’t really hide how shitty he looked.  
  
If he looked like garbage, acted like garbage and fucking smelled like garbage, he probably felt like garbage—or so his smartass little brother said.  
  
Fine! When it was that obvious, Dean couldn’t claim blissful unawareness any longer.  
  
He blurted out all his woes, drama, set-backs and hopeless emo-ness because, yeah, okay, shit looked bleak!

And then Sam…looked hesitant.

Hesitance in his baby brother captured Dean’s interest because Winchesters didn’t do second-guessing.

No matter what, right or wrong, positive or negative, Sam had an opinion—an answer.  
  
This stalling was almost more intriguing than whatever the hell he had to say.  
  
Dean instantly perked up like a wily ferret. He was all expectant ears, feeling a rush of ‘Do I have a reason to live after all? Haha, just kidding, but seriously, put me out of my misery, Sammy, c’mon!’

The question, “What do you think of working private security?” shouldn’t have been loaded, it sounded straightforward. Why the hell was Sam so cautious about (what Dean thought) was a decent transition, as far as jobs went?

When he’d asked, “Wait, like a bodyguard?”

Sam had gained steam and confirmed, with more confidence, “...Yeah. Exactly. I mean, totally! Like a, uh, bodyguard!”

Dean was so fucking confused...Sam’s erratic behavior led to a million questions.  
  
If he didn’t know Sam better, Dean would think his brother was making this up on the spot. But...that wasn’t possible—not unless he’d lost his mind.  
  
Instead of jumping at the idea, Dean was wary. Maybe over the years he _had smartened _ up—he was too old for this shit—pausing to analyze the situation rather than celebrate his road to freedom.

Awkward, awkward Sam needed to make a phone call.

Even more bizarre, was this phone call (which should have been discussed and considered with the weight and intensity it took to protect someone’s friggin _ life_) took less than five minutes.  
  
After forgoing an in-depth and lengthy discussion, Sam bounced back with a beaming smile.

Dean assumed they were trying to figure out if this gig was even available. If someone was in danger to the point that he was needed in the first place—right?

So when Sam announced, “You’re hired!” he wasn’t only shocked—  
  
He was friggin vibrating off the wall in excitement!

“Shut up! Seriously?! When do I start?!”  
  
This was happening!

Hah! Who the hell was he kidding? He’d never smartened up, Dean’s feet had left the diving board and he was diving in the deep end! Same dumbass he’d always been, but he needed something! Anything!   
  
This was perfect, it was the high-octane jump-start he’d been dreaming of! Details, smetails...

\------------------------

With his mood soaring, Dean whistled a tune while sipping coffee en route to finally meet his charge downtown.

The wait for his health to be back to one-hundred percent was finally over. In the meantime, he’d been faced with his contract. _If _ you could call it that...  
  
The damn thing was like a set of old-school encyclopedias!  
  
The technical jargon made his eyes gloss over within minutes. After tossing it between hands and giving the text a good slap, Dean’s best guesstimate put the bulk right around his bench-press numbers. He tried to focus, he really did, but each time boredom set in, the document was transformed into a new creative physical therapy tool.  
  
From the very little he could manage, Dean’s description in three words...excessive, evasive and classified.  
  
Like—should he even bother? There were so many half-truths and what-ifs, unless an actual example was spelled out on page three-thousand-and-two, what the hell was he even signing on to?!  
  
He was much more familiar with the ‘thump’ it made on his nightstand than any of the terms. Dammit, he was trying, the frayed edges, coffee stains and smudged oil he left behind was proof!   
  
At one point when Dean noticed there weren’t page numbers, he began flipping and counting out of curiosity (instead of, you know, just fucking reading it) and lost interest in that, too.  
  
With his training, he knew how to read official documents, and while it was odd…whoever put it together knew what they were doing.  
  
After randomly flipping around, picking apart different pages and scanning over haphazard chunks, he deemed it was professional and it checked out: that’s why Dean ended up signing in the end.  
  
Obviously, it wasn’t a scam. The format was streamlined and kosher, he wasn’t signing away his life savings—regardless of length, it was a familiar song and dance. Everything fell well within the parameters of the law, there were no loopholes or fineprint out to fuck him over.  
  
The one small portion that made him look twice involved his employer. Even that read like…a disclaimer of half-truths until Dean promised discretion.

From what Dean gathered (by making a list of ‘translations’ on his copy) his end of the deal was pretty sweet. He was able to continue carrying his concealed firearm—in fact, it was a requirement in order to protect his charge. The pay (not like his needs were all that much) was _ excellent_, plus; he could look forward to holiday raises and time and a half for overtime.

The best part: Dean had the opportunity to travel, to experience places and see events that were never offered to him during his time in any government capacity. This guys was a private citizen rather than an organization—and apparently, he was fuckin_’ _ _loaded_.  
  
_ Jesuschrist—_he had affiliates and (secretive, or whatever, Dean would ‘be briefed’) ties that could and would make him a target.

The more he thought about it, the more the sections concerning the dude’s privacy made sense. Hell, if you were home-grown, you had enemies—once you hop overseas, you need to take a headcount of who hates you.

Although Dean couldn’t imagine there were enough dicks out there gunning for his employer to make up even half of the contract’s murkiness.

Or the vagueness could be related to something different entirely. Dean _ was _ impeding on this dude’s private life. Could be kinky shit, hookers and blow, but he wasn't there to judge. Fuck knows how many blind eyes he’d turned from politicians when he was in the CIA. He had plenty of experience zipping his lips in that arena.  
  
Private security meant they’d get cozy. Unquestionably, and probably uncomfortably so. Dean would undoubtedly see shit that no one else should know about, juicy tid-bits that a lesser man may sell to the media, but his discipline, his upbringing instilled his packaged ‘Do-or-Die/Ride-or-Die’ deal.

When Dean signed that contract? Promising what happened when he was in this guy—something-Novak’s presence? When he saw _ anything _ the dude did, that Dean was only a fly on the wall, and _ nada _would ever leave his mouth?

Dean _ meant it_. It wasn’t like his entire career and livelihood held anything but honor, dedication and loyalty in the highest regard or anything...  
  
All he needed was a chance—a real chance—to secure and earn his place: no matter how it came about. To protect someone, you needed their respect, you needed to be tested in order to be trusted and he was aching for that defining moment to come so he could rise up.

Blowing out through his lips and clicking the elevator button to ascend, made it so real…he was stepping into his next mission, the one that would give him a reason to wake up in the morning. Dean could _ feel _a life worth living again.

As he boarded the elevator, Dean couldn’t help but wonder: who did Sam know on this guy’s end? Who the hell trusted his brother on _ his word alone _ on _ Dean _being able to protect this Novak dude?

Sure, Dean _ looked _ the part, you know, the hot James Bond type. He’d totally checked himself out when donning his suit just as naturally as his firearm, but _still_.   
  
He’d never so much as set foot in a room with his employer.  
  
One would _ think _he’d wanna know the new guy who was protecting his life, right? Plus, his competency was one thing: that was an item on the list others could vouch for, his resume spoke for itself but—

Who was to say they were gonna gel?

If they butted heads would Dean bite his tongue on the sidelines, having already committed, and wind up hating every damn second going forward?

The elevator dinged sharply, a rude awakening, and he jumped at the noise.

Well, he was here! This was the right floor, it was time to shine!

Dean soothed down his suit and turned towards the suite, holding his head high and rolling his shoulders back.

When he reached the door, he knocked with confidence, ready to make a fan-fucking-tastic first impression.  
  
But...

No one answer. So he knocked again.

Checking the text he received from the dude’s manager, Dean confirmed that, yes—this _ was _the right place.

Clearing his throat, Dean knocked one last time, calling out, “Mr. Novak? My name’s Dean Winchester. I’m reporting for duty, here on behalf of—_woah—_!”

The door swung open, revealing a fucking _stunning_ piece of man who was only clad in a pair of black boxer-briefs. He hardly spared Dean a glance before blandly stating, “Oh. It’s you. Good. With _ that _outfit, I was worried you were security.”

At first, Dean was distracted (and kinda thrilled) ‘The Job’ was downright delicious eye-candy, he was having a field day soaking in the sight and scanning every inch of rolling, flexing muscles along his sweaty—wait—

Did he just talk shit about Dean’s suit? And furthermore—!

“Are you all right?” Dean dared to question, “Is that blood?”

“Mm, I’d ask the same, but it’s painfully obvious you’re doing quite well, Mr. Winchester,” he brashly and lewdly glanced down, funneling both their focuses down between Dean’s legs to a horribly-timed erection. Before Dean even had a second to appear ashamed, Novak ordered, “What are you waiting for, get in!”

He lashed out to grab Dean‘s bicep, deceptively strong as he swung him inside—Dean only offering a, “_What_?!” in return, while he continued to forcefully—

—Unloop his tie and unbutton his shirt—!?

“I-I-I-I,” Dean stammered, Novak’s hands working deftly and quickly to undress him, before he finally caught up to the scene at hand and jumped backwards, flush against the closed door. “Excuse me, Mr. Novak, _ please_! I was not led to believe, by any means, this was a sexual arrangement—not that I’m n-not extremely attracted to you—but I’m not down being _ paid _ to have sex for, like, _ money _and—”

With an eruption of laughter, Novak backed off and raised his hands in front of him, saying with a softer, coaxing, “It‘s all right. And, please, call me Cas. This isn’t about sex, believe me—if I were seducing you, you’d be ripping your own clothes off. Take a deep breath. This _is_ in relation to your job as a _bodyguard_, not a prostitute.”  
  
Wow, his eyes were friggin beautiful, too...Dean felt like the guy was staring right through him.  
  
“You’re here for work, not pleasure.” Cas asked with an honest smile, “Are we in agreement?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean nodded a massive sigh of relief, folding his undershirt onto the countertop, and adding his belt. “Glad we’re on the same page.” Suddenly, he realized—

Why was he _still_ undressing?

“Why are we undressing?” he asked aloud, as he continued the motions—so completely out of his element, going with the flow seemed to be the only thing to do.

“That’s easily explained. To keep our clothing clean.” Cas crossed his arms and encouraged Dean to continue, his gaze felt intimidating (but no less gorgeous) by appraising him. “Do let me know if you need assistance.”

“I-I’m good,” Dean confirmed, bending over. He kicked his foot in a jerky attempt to jump out of the pant leg. “What are we doin’ that would get us messy?”

“We need to dispose of a dead body.” Gesturing to his side, Cas recalled, “That’s where the blood’s from. Unfortunately, someone didn’t wait for your shift to begin so I handled it myself. The corpse is in the Jacuzzi. Hurry up or I’ll begin dismemberment without you.”

So that whole ‘attempt’ Dean made to hop on outta his pants? Crashed and burned upon hearing the word ‘corpse.’

Dean missed spectacularly, stumbling over his own feet, and clocked his head on the edge of the couch on his way down.

Half-naked and dizzy, he found himself gasping for air—the collision with the unforgiving ground knocked the wind from his lungs and he stared at the ceiling, wondering if this was all a dream—this _couldn’t_ truly be his first day at work…could it?  
  
Hell, maybe it was a wet dream gone wrong, this couldn’t be happening _ at all—_

A very real shadow loomed over Dean acting as the cold shower that confirmed, yes, this _ was _ playing out in real time. His eyes finally adjusted as Cas’ footsteps grew closer, everything whipped back into focus and sharp pain where he’d smacked his head was the goddamn icing on the cake-  
  
The other almost-naked (albeit possibly-_homicidal_) smoke-show peered down at him, inquisitive, hands planted on his hips. “Good, you didn’t cut yourself. There’s far too much DNA to dispose of in this suite already.”  
  
“Thanks, yeah. I’m fine, _ really_. Don’t worry about me...” Dean mumbled under his breath in sarcastic retaliation. 

Dear Lord, this was real, and he—  
  
—the contract…he’d signed a contract…he was in over his head. What the fuck had he gotten himself into?!


	2. Chapter One

Good Lord, Dean rubbed his eyes and looked around, wondering where the camera crew was. No, not because this was a joke—but because this was a scene straight out of Dexter.

It turned out, Cas was a man of his word when he casually led him into the bathroom of the suite where there laid, yes, a lifeless body. One he’d been halfway through ‘taking care of it’ himself.  
  
Oh…Dean had some answers, all right. So _ this _was where the blood spatter on Cas had come from...

Plastic was neatly laid out across the tile while the man, in contrast, was discarded and slumped over in the Jacuzzi, Cas turned back to Dean with a crooked grin. “I do hope you’re not squeamish.”

“Nah. Nope. Just.” Dean was completely gobsmacked, and it had nothing to do with the fact that someone was totally, absolutely flat-lined there.

Considering his previous employment? He couldn’t count the number of corpses he’d seen in one lifetime. How many bodies he’d marched through on the battlefield, not giving them a second glance, only giving them regard to navigate around instead of trampling over as he moved forward.

Nah, his mind was blown because Cas already had all the tools, like, _ with him! _ The friggin material to cover the flooring, the tarp in the tub, garbage bags, and a—what was that—a bone saw? Dear Jesus fucking Christ, how had he wound up here today!?

Dean abruptly cleared his throat, watching Cas go back to…uh…chopping the dude into more transportable pieces and tried to act casual. “So do you, like…put all this stuff into your checked bag, uh, when you travel?”

“No. It’s in my carry-on.” A glower shot up towards him as he tossed the second arm onto the plastic sheet. “Make yourself useful and grab the duct tape. Wrap those tightly and individually. Put them in separate trash bags.”

With a groan of protest, Dean fell to his knees and scanned the ground, “—the _ fuck _is the duct tape?!”

“Oh. Pardon me, it’s over by his leg.” He nonchalantly nodded backwards to gesture, since his hands were busy going back to work in the tub.

Pursing his lips and recognizing that—yes—he was on his knees, about to join in a merry gift wrapping session of dead human parts, Dean desperately needed answers. Or else he wasn’t going a single step further. He _couldn’t_.

“Just....stop, I have one…maybe two questions. _ Stop_.” Dean surprised himself by the assertive order he barked out—considering the massive size of the dead dude (seriously, he was a linebacker—rest in pieces) and the fact his new employer was armed, dangerous, and very able.  
  
It took a certain type, and Dean knew from the scene before him that Cas could slash his head off in a blink, hell, he was holding the blade it would take to do it.

Instead of the average psychopath (was that a thing?), Castiel wasn’t defensive at being questioned. He was curious. In fact, his annoyance came from being interrupted in their task, reminding him, “You _ do _know we’re on a time-crunch here, correct?”

“Yeah, I do.” What—was he a moron? Just chillin’, bloody and half-naked, on his ass for the fun of it? “I need to know who you are and why you…you know. I was supposed to get details when I got here. I signed the contract. I deserve information.”

“I apologize, I’ve become distracted—” Cas actually grabbed a wad of paper towels, wiped his hands off and plopped down to an unsoiled section of sheeting. “Unfortunately, I was born into the wrong family. A family member is in politics, he recently prompted and swayed some very liberal foreign policy that’s since been signed into law. It’s picking up speed with other countries and there are many who don’t like it. It's caused a small ripple effect here, as well.”

“So you’re a foreign national,“ Dean perked right up, “Wait, I think I—”

“No. No, who my family is doesn’t matter, _ I _ was born here. I’ve been here, creating, forging my own way as a US citizen, my entire life. _ Until _ the political outrage. And _ until _I became a target.” Cas hunched over his knees, body language speaking openly, honest, and all kinds of beautiful.

You know. Besides the less-than-stellar scenery and shit. Yeah, Dean kind of felt bad for him.

A moment of mutual silence, mutual…almost—understanding?—passed, and Dean knew from his own background: this wasn’t uncommon.

Being a target, a victim, over radical politics that you had nothing to do with and no control over? Hell, that’s one of the reasons Dean wasn’t overly disappointed when he left the Marines, having to watch lives being destroyed for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.  
  
It was also why Cas’ offering of “I rarely pick fights, I never chose this one—but I tend to end them,” resonated. 

Maybe Cas wasn’t so different….

“All right. My second question.” Dean asked smoothly, “Do you have gloves? I don’t want to leave any epithelial cells sticking to the duct tape.”

A genuine smile flashed on Cas face for a split-second, his eyes flickering towards a space behind Dean. “It’s in my ‘checked baggage.’”

“Lovely.”

\----------------------------

Dean’s approach was careful and deliberate when it came to wrapping the bundles together. He didn’t think too hard about _what_ he was making into a package—only that it was tight, leak-proof and well-executed. 

No way Dean Winchester did anything half-assed.

Although, his attempts for some light conversation were gawky no matter how hard he tried... “So this was totally self-defense,” but then…he looked down. And remembered what he was currently, _ physically _doing.

“At first, it was self-defense. Here: catch—” Castiel hummed, tossing something over his shoulder and before Dean knew it, he reflexively snatched it up. “Bag it!” 

The fucking head. The whole head. And nothing but the head—   
  
It felt tacky cradled in his palms. Staring back at him.  
  
Despite all his battle-scarring and years of desensitization, Dean confessed the whole one-eye-rolled-backwards, other-half-lidded and half-gouged look made him gag.

He tore his eyes away before he hurled, catching sight of Cas’ Cheshire-like grin. “Y-you were saying something?”

“At first, yes—it was self defense. Then, after so many attempts were made on my life; perhaps,” he searched for the words, “I found my creative niche.”

Okay, the initial horror Dean felt was back. And he knew this time was the _ correct _ reaction.   
  
Rule number one: _ never _be fooled by a pretty face!

Cas wrapped the torso while Dean stuffed his own final piece (doomed to haunt his dreams) into the bag and bound it in tape more vigorously than before, his heart picking up speed. He had no fucking clue what Cas’ next move was. Did he have plans to take out his accomplice? Ex out any witnesses?

After taking in the sight of the bags on the floor with a sigh of affirmation, like Cas was proud of their work, he stretched out.

“Now that we’ve finished, you may wipe down the room. Put on your hotel-security outfit and dispose of the remains.”

Dean didn't think, erupting, “Excuse me?!"

Castiel, offering a head tilt of disapproval, combined with a show of his blood-covered arms—the crimson dripped from his fingertips down his elbows in friggin _ globs—_gesturing to the spatter on his chest and face: Cas actually admonished him!

“Well, I _was_ the one who did all the intricate work and physically labored. It was an additional job coddling you. Paying mind and monitoring your delicate senses, ensuring you didn’t have to get your hands dirty or else—”

“My ’delicate senses?’” Dean held back his rage with everything in him, on the verge of exploding. Respect was one thing, but he refused to stay silent and take shit from anyone—rising to his knees. “Do you have any idea who I am? Of my history? Why I was even offered the job in the first place?”

A shit eating grin tugged Cas’ cheeks. “Of course.” He stood up, not just looming over Dean with his physical presence, but in a way that dug deeper, cutting him more profoundly when he pronounced the words, “You were a detective. You worked in the CIA. Which means you know all about forensics. You’re a wonderful candidate to help me tie up loose ends.”

When Cas leaned down, they were practically nose to nose—Dean prayed to God he wasn’t blushing because…the flecks of red disappeared. Everything was Cas. Being a cocky, sexy, dickish jerk.

Dean could feel Cas’ breath against his lips when he whispered, “I’ve been hoping for the best until now. If anyone can get away with murder—it’s someone like you, Dean. So go take care of the body.”

The moment Cas stood up to his full height, Dean didn’t know whether to growl in anger or shudder in arousal. He was so damn conflicted!

“I’ll clean up in here, don’t worry. I doubt another assassin will come for a while,” Cas assured him, putting his hands on his hips unknowingly. He probably felt the tacky substance against his skin, glancing at his sullied boxers and shrugging, “I’ll need to throw these away. Oh, I find wetlands or lake body dumps ideal. It’s relaxing. And if predators tear at the plastic, I heard the flesh just…sloughs off the bone during decomp. And—”

Baffled, Dean watched as Cas raised a finger and turned towards a closet, only to stop at the edge of the plastic and realize he couldn’t go further.

He continued directing, “I’ve already acquired cinder blocks. You’ll have to retrieve them, I’m stuck,” shocking Dean further with how blase he spoke, like he’d done this a million times before (Dean prayed it hadn’t been _that_ many). “Once the remains are found skeletonized, they’ll assumed it was a mob hit.”

Dean turned around towards the linen closet—to where Cas had, indeed, obtained a duffle bag full of cinder blocks. Who the hell does this shit?!  
  
Sneering to mask his inner turmoil, Dean could only offer, “You’ve got this all figured out, don’t you? Why do you need me?”

“I can’t be in two places at once. It cuts down on time.”

“You’re being serious, aren’t you?” He gaped at Cas, who urged him along with a glare while he turned on the overhead spray of the shower. That was Dean’s first real motivation to hit it. “Wait! What am I supposed to carry…_him_ in?!”

Cas quickly rinsed off the bottom of his feet where the blood had dried into a crust, and Dean pretended not to hear the grumbled words about 'spoon-feeding him everything.' Teeth were clenched and this time—Cas was going to show him rather than tell, nimbly crossing back into the main room of the suite.  
  
His orders were very, very clear: “That rolling hard-shell, suitcase should fit him. The zip-ties, ropes and chains are already in with the cinder blocks. The elevator across the from us let’s out at the east end of the motel. An exit is directly in front of you.”

Woah, okay, Dean didn’t know there were going to be so many steps—this served as more proof exactly how proficient Cas was: either through experience or natural gumption. Either was absolutely terrifying.

“Take the unmarked black Jeep in front of the exit, to your left. Put everything in the back where the seats have been removed. You’re know this area—find a location that’s isolated, somewhere with deep water, someplace shady. And sink him.” While Cas continued to ramble off, there was a smoldering fire in the back of his eyes.

One that Dean was both afraid of and…kinda getting lost in. But it proved something unexpected: no matter how methodical, no matter how smooth and how much he fought to keep his voice even, Cas wasn’t the sociopath Dean initially thought.  
  
He wasn’t cold, murderous and callous—_something fierce_ was there. While Cas was doing a damn good job playing the role, he wasn’t unburdened.

“Once you’re finished, discard any unused materials. Rip out the lining I put in the back of the Jeep. Burn it, if you have to. By then, I’ll be done eradicating any trace that filth ever existed. We’ll touch base.” Cas’ voice never changed in timbre when he added, “Keys are by the television. It’s a push-to-start. Drive the speed limit. Don't forget to wear a seatbelt.”

Maybe? ….There might be something, at least Dean thought...  
  
…_Deep down_…?

Dean begrudgingly snatched up the rolling suitcase and prepared for—holy hell—the most stressful trip in his life. Cas began cleaning like it was a normal Monday.

With a snort, Dean could only mumbled, “Can’t believe it really _is_ friggin checked luggage…” with the keys in hand, and, despite being treated like the dude’s bitch, he left. Trying not to stomp on his way out.

\----------------------------------

The most difficult thing about the whole ‘disposal’ part was actually drumming up an idea for the location.

Cas _had_ done his research. Or he’d never have been roped into this. After the initial sucker-punch, he knew damn well Dean could stomach it, he wasn't a newbie that would cut and run.

No matter how mercilessly he tried to get a rise out of Dean, if he knew about his detective and CIA background—he knew about the military and deployment with the Marines. He knew about his tours in Afghanistan and Iraq. No man could go through what Dean went through and come out squeamish. Or a basket-case.

Dean would probably have problems with the latter if he wasn’t so mission-oriented and single-minded. Sam knew that and…

_Sam_.

Oh—that little assclown was going to suffer!

_After_ Dean had finished what he’d set out to do!

And that was the bitch of it all: when he pledged loyalty, it was a done deal. The sole reason he was carrying out the deed inside this lucid dream.

Yeah—but finding an isolated spot with water deep enough to weigh down a body and obscure a dismembered human? In the middle of the day? Because it was _convenient for Cas_? This was a tall order that tested a whole _ new _ kind of loyalty!  
  
The soul-selling easier-said-than-done variety.

...Although having a challenge, some kind of complex and intricate goal that tested his mind and body—this was the adrenaline he’d been searching for. The invigorating rush he'd needed, for what felt like ages.

He tried not to bother himself with the details, because...no. Just. Nope.

On that too-long-to-be-cruising-with-a-corpse drive, he reflected back to some of Cas’ first words to him, the: ‘_Unfortunately, someone didn’t wait for your shift to begin so I handled it myself,'_ and he remembered his role in the first place. As a bodyguard.

_ That’s _what he signed up for. He wasn’t a killer, nor would he be—that wasn’t in the contract. Dean was damn sure, haphazardly skimming or not, he’d remember that paragraph.

Once he finally found a lake (one without a soul fishing in a ten mile radius) he was lucky enough to hotwire a dusty old boat, rusting, landlocked and long-since abandoned. Using some additional plastic found in this crazy-asses’ bag, he rolled out and laid down one more sheet of plastic before setting out for his virgin body-dump cruise.

That part actually went pretty damn smooth. Dean knew how to tie every knot known to man, the right placement and looping to make sure these…uh, _packages_ stayed waterlogged and never saw the light of day.  
  
When he hit the shoreline, he wadded up the plastic and wiped down the boat for prints. Just in case.

Getting rid of the remaining evidence was pretty easy.  
  
When Cas said burn it? At first, he mused over torching the Jeep, out of sheer spite.  
  
Instead, out there in the rural areas were countless pits and barrels designated for burning piles or campfires. Dean could spot a few in the distance. Once unattended, he went ahead and slipped small pieces of his own shit into those blazing wood piles.  
  
He’d keep an eye out. Waiting to make sure any onlookers were gone. Then he took off, headed for the next.

The suitcase itself was nondescript. It was made entirely out of plastic, and everything he carried inside he’d professionally wrapped by hand. Dean knew not so much as a had drop leaked, having gone to the trouble of double-bagging for good measure.

Right before he bit the bullet and made the final trek back to Cas’ suite, he pulled over for one last stop.   
  
Of course, Cas was right to hire him (but not mock him, the dick), Dean put his forensic knowledge to good use. Submerging, dosing, wiping down and spit-shining every last inch, nook and cranny even when it was undoubtedly clean.

Logically, he knew there was no DNA evidence, but you could never be too careful. Dean took a home-mixed spray of chemicals (before he dumped and burned that bottle, too) to every crevice, zipperline, crack and edge—even luminol wouldn't tell any tales.

The drive put a county and a few towns between him and the hotel, but he knew the area and made a detour to a certain plaza. Out of spite, Dean took the suitcase to local charity organization instead of destroying it. A rural location where they had a donation drop-off. Where he knew they had no cameras. Where some good could come from his trip.

Now that Dean re-wrote his own, small happy ending, he pulled a u-turn and reluctantly began his return journey. Praying that Castiel was as professional as his cockiness suggested when cleaning up that bloodbath of a hotel room.

\--------------------------------

Truthfully, Dean had no idea what to expect on the other side of that door. His stomach flip-flopped, growing uneasier with every forward step.

Would he be faced with the barrel of a gun? And empty room, Cas already having skipped town? Or something in-between? The options were endless! His knock coupled with the brusque, “It’s me,” was inviting himself into the unknown.

The door took another painfully long time to open. All his worries, all these wild-ass ideas began waging war and taking flight, until—

Cas was there.  
  
Resembling the employer Dean was (more or less) expecting the first time he'd knocked on his door.   
  
Comfortably wrapped in a bathrobe with a glass of bourbon in hand, Cas raised an eyebrow when he said, “I wondered when you’d finish your errands.”

Normally, yeah, Dean would get snippy with any other dude.  
  
Except, this was a professional setting, bizarre or not. On the drive home, he'd given himself a pep-talk.  
  
To remember: at the end of the day he was getting paid. As an employee, he’d learned it best to fall in line and recognize where he was in the chain of command. He’d learned that the hard way from the moment he left high school—sometimes those in charge wouldn't like you, others you also may hate, but you couldn't allow personal feelings to effect your performance: that's where people got hurt—or worse. Cas’ unpredictable nature gave him even more incentive to follow instructions, he didn't want anymore blood on either of their hands.

For the first time, he wasn’t focusing on Cas when invited in—he was scanning the room. Using a trained, discerning eye. It didn’t go unnoticed by his boss. Dean had a shadow, like, hovering so close he could feel body heat.

When he looked around the hallway and finally made his way to the bathroom, he nearly collapsed in relief.

He had no idea how long he’d been zoned out, analyzing, studying the details in every groove, each millimeter of grout and the lavishly textured and embellished shower curtains (that were _somehow_ spared any spatter during…whatever fatal events he’d barely missed) but it was spotless.  
  
To the naked eye, nothing was amiss. The suite was _immaculate_.

While Dean could always dig in, if he didn't have a reason—just as others wouldn't without a cause—why would he?

The fieldtrip Dean took went flawlessly, and the work Cas put in here begged the question: why would _ anyone _ come looking in _ this _room to find well-known, BFF assassin friend? What would make the cops think a dirtbag Missing Person would have a meet-cute with a prominent and successful guy like Cas in the first place? It didn't track.  
  
This felt like a solid win.

He could hear the liquor slosh in Cas’ cup as he walked back in the main room, commenting, “I hope it went as well for you. You took your time.”

See, Dean couldn’t get a read on him. Considering how he always prided himself on finding tells—even the _barest, minuscule_ of hints—as a seasoned interrogator, Cas frustrated him.

There was no indication if Cas thought he’d taken too long, if he assumed Dean was being painstakingly careful, and rightfully so, or if—

“Do remember the terms of your contract?” Cas' breezily flippant attitude was the turning point—it dawned on Dean: Cas wondered if he ’took too long’ because he was spilling his guts about what happened. Further proved by his half-assed threat, “You're aware being an accessory after the—”

“Oh, don’t blackmail _or_ patronize me. I’m a straight-up accessory—there’s no ‘after the fact.’ Add on desecration of a human corpse, unlawful disposal of a dead body, any prosecutor could spin a tale that I was in the room with you. Soon, it‘s second-degree murder, we were both holding hands, squeezing the trigger! I know how this works.”

“I…I hadn’t meant it to be blackmail. Not at all. I was merely stating facts as reminders, but I should have known you were aware. I'll admit it, I was wrong…about you. And I concede that my first impression was,” he sighed heavily, “foolishly superficial.” For the first time, the tables had turned—Cas was the one surprised by Dean‘s spirit.

Yeah. Dean liked that. He also liked Cas freely stating, “You’re much brighter and far more intelligent than your attractive exterior led me to believe.”

“Although, there is one thing I find _imperative, _that you must understand...” Cas closed in on his personal space—like he was letting Dean in on the secret workings of the universe. “You’d do well to stay by my side. You’re far too pretty for prison.”

Well, then...  
  
All that footing, grounding and control Dean _ thought _ he’d gained?  
  
He lost it. It blew away on the fuckin’ summer breeze and his damn stammering wasn‘t gonna do anything to help! Not in Cas’ world. It may have taken time, but Dean was figuring out the rules and how the guy worked—he couldn’t play this game. 

After taking a deep, calming breath, Dean gathered himself and mustered up, “I’m staying to do my job. I signed the papers. I’m legally bound by the contract you‘re paying me for.” With brazen confident, Dean capped it off with, “And you know what? I find myself too pretty for a lot of things. Especially grunt work and running ‘mob errands.'”

“You are,” Cas acknowledged fondly. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Dean. Excellent first day. I look forward to our continued work together and getting to know one another. Hopefully, an incident like this one won’t happen again.”

Swallowing hard, Dean’s chest tightened when Cas’ regard turned into interest. Undeniable interest. God, he shouldn’t be conflicted and confused like this. Dean had no friggin clue why he’d want it (or anything to do with Cas) so badly, but he did—it was so weird and this messed up kind of attraction where he should be running in the other direction, but he couldn’t and—!

“I’m going to make sure _everyone_ is protected, guarded and safe, from here on out,” Dean swore, needing to protect Cas from impending threats, but more than anything—saving those poor fools from Castiel fuckin’ Novak. “I’ll see you tomorrow, too. Call me if you need anything tonight. I mean it.”

“Don’t tempt me....”

That whole thing Cas told him earlier? If he was seducing Dean, he’d know it? _That_ was seduction, he was playing hard and fast, and it would’ve worked if they hadn’t earlier been…yeah. Engaged in the wrong kind of intimate act (covering up murder an off-the-wall bonding experience) together. That brand of foreplay wasn’t _exactly_ what got Dean ready to go..

_ Cas _totally got him hot and bothered, don’t get him wrong, but today was too much too fast—he needed to cap off the night, get his feet back under him, and breathe.

With a tight smile, he agreed, “I’ll try not to, but my offer still stands. Good night, Mr. Novak.”

Watching Cas’ face fall, it left Dean feeling like he’d claimed the final victory during an entire whirlwind day of fails and outrageous surprises. Like he may actually have the upperhand. How the hell did he manage to get the last word? To hit a home run, bottom of the ninth? Sheer luck?

Nah, Castiel Novak may be ten kinds of crazy, but Dean had seen shit—maybe every hardship, all of his past experiences were preparing him for this moment. Had he not seen some shit, been through the ringer and come out alive, Dean would've buckled under the pressure the second he realized what he stepped into.

Although, to claim he was cool under pressure, at anytime today…?

Who the hell was he kidding.

The _second_ he was out of Cas’ sights, he finally released the ball of nuclear energy—building and building and almost breaking underneath of a paper-thin barrier under Dean's skin—growing like cancer the entire course of the day. Breaking was a long time coming—his fucking meltdown was the stuff of legends!

\-------------------------------------

Frantic and tugging out his hair, Dean knew he couldn’t call Sam.

He couldn’t leave future evidence for the cops to triangulate his calls, his panic, to record _anything_ that could potentially put his ass is prison until the day he died. God, Cas was right—he _ was _ too fuckin’ pretty for prison—he’d have to kill a kingpin to earn some street cred or get isolation for the entire sentence—which ever came first—_christonacracker—_

Now, he had a brother to fuck up!

Dean made two loops past Sam’s home as he cruised through the neighborhood, needing to be sure his brother was home from work and settled in before the rampage began. Yep, he saw the tell-tale flashing of a TV from the drawn drapes in the living room—it was time to attack while his ass was cuddled in and safe all night after he’d thrown Dean to the wolves!

God, he felt like a prowler…  
  
You could hear the Impala’s engine rolling down the road a mile away. Dean was careful to avoid hitting the gas on his initial passes (he’d kinda just...glided by) and finally parked a block down to get the jump on him. To exact some kind of revenge.

Normally, of course, he’d knock.

Tonight, Dean used his spare key.

And he tore into the house like a goddamn tornado.

“Sammy!” Both his sudden presence and booming voice has his brother locking up on the couch, face draining to white in alarm. “What the fuck were you thinking?! How do you know this psycho? Did you throw me under the bus intentionally? For shits and giggles? Are you trying to get me killed or locked away in _ prison_?! Which is it—huh? _Huh_?!”

Dean stormed through the living room, stomping to the couch until they were almost nose-to-nose.

With wide-eyes, Sam tried to laugh it off. He. Laughed.

“Wow, uh, it went to hell _ that _quick, huh?” His little brother was nervous, clutching the blanket on his lap with locked knuckles. “I thought there’d be some…easing into it. So we could explain—”

“_Explain_?!” he demanded, “Explain how—!”

“Dean, lower your voice! Just…sit down,” Sam interrupted, scooting over to make room beside him.

The thing was: he could read his brother like a book. Shockingly, Sam and his pure heart was _ not _oblivious to Castiel and his actions, as Dean was inclined to believe. Which meant Sam was just as much to blame—if not more—than the goddamn madman he was working for!

He _hadn’t_ looked at Dean like he was the crazy one when he tore inside. It was as though Sam had expected it—only ‘not this soon,’ in his own words. This was complete insanity!

Sam knew a killer. And he’d dropped Dean right in his path. Put him into the position of being an accomplice, came up with the idea, _ out of nowhere, _ and—!

“Listen…“ Right as Dean was about to protest, Sam nailed him with one of his Almighty Bitchfaces. One of _those _he couldn't contend with. “Just…listen. Did you guys go into any details at all?“

Dean remained defiant and silent, biting back his sarcastic 'oh, after the kill when we had dinner and a movie?'

“Okay…well, I guess if you went along with it, you had a reason, right? So you know Cas’ Uncle’s a politician.” He must have twitched or some shit, because Sam carried on. “When he voted on that deal and it was signed into law, things got pretty crazy. Sure, his Uncle needed to stay in the limelight as a figurehead and continue working as an Ambassador, to prove his wasn’t ashamed of his choice, but there were some crazy radicals who acted out.“

With a heavy breath, Sam disclosed, “His entire family had to go into hiding because of the threats. But Cas…he refused. As the only Krushnic around, this crazy Neo Nazi terrorist group tried to kidnap him. Figured they could teach his Uncle a lesson and make some ransom money.’ Only, Cas—”

“Fucked up some Nazis,” Dean helpfully supplied.

With a heavy sigh, Sam wiped his brow and repeated, “Yeah. He fucked up some Nazis. And the thing about Nazis? They don’t learn their lessons. So they kept coming. With the same ideas—plus, revenge—and…well, Cas got more…assertive. It was my idea to hire a bodyguard—”

“Shouldn’t he _ have one _ to begin with?” Dean was incredulous, “It doesn’t matter if he was born here and he‘s removed from politics, after that attack they should’ve supplied someone who could take care of him.”  
  
One thing that clicked for Dean that hadn’t before: the Krushnic name. The contract, along with all its other half-truths had mentioned ‘Novak,’ which was what Dean had gone in there calling Cas. The puzzle pieces had been there, but the chaos was a whirlwind that whipped them around in a spin cycle, Dean unable to put them together until now—  
  
But, oh, Dean was very, _ very _ well aware of the feud and bargaining chip Cas could be. While pictures were hardly in the media (hence, Dean’s less-than-stellar reaction time), the threats on the family were high-profile. But from all accounts, _ everyone _ involved was in protective custody.  
  
Minus one wild asshole Dean had the pleasure of meeting today.

“See, that’s the thing. Cas won’t let anyone ’take care of him.’ The only reason we were able to get you in there? Was because his small team…wow, I can’t believe I’m saying this out loud. But you know everything, so I can,” Sam down a sharp inhale before the blurted announcement, “They’re sick of the body count. Cas has racked up a _stupid_ number of, uh, ‘self-defense’ cases, because of people coming after him that he’s stopped communicating about the incidents and they’re worried he’s going rogue. They want someone able to incapacitate threats, and, you know...not kill them. Cas won't keep them in the loop, the enemy attack are getting worse and everyone's afraid of what might happen.”

“I wasn’t hired to protect Cas,” Dean slowly realized, “I was hired to protect Nazis _from_ Cas?” He snorted and rolled his eyes, “Yeah. Yeah—I’d say he’d gone fuckin’ rogue, all right. From what I've seen, he's not the kind of guy who'd welcome welfare checks either." At least one good thing came out of this, and Dean's admission to his brother felt all kinds of rewarding, "Hell, at least knowing the dude we chopped up was a white supremacist. Makes me feel better about getting rid of him.”

Sam’s eyes widened and he echoed, “You...chopped him up?”

This time, Dean’s glare rivaled the best of Sam’s, so he acquiesced. He shouldn’t be surprised if he (how—Dean still had no damn clue) was in Cas' inner circle!

Instead, shaking his head, Sam could only admit, “I can’t believe everything happened _ today. _ God, Dean, I’m sorry. I wanted you to get to know him. Just...meet him and go from there. Then I could explain the situation, of the people gunning for him, once you two had a rapport. I guess I assumed the next time someone came after Cas, he’d let you handle it. And maybe that way...the secret would never come out.”  
  
'The Secret.' Is that what Sam called a hot guy with a body count these days?

“That I’d land a KO, instead’a him repeating his DOA.” With everything sinking in, Dean was hit by exhaustion harder than a brick wall. “Messed up, dude. So messed up.”

A beat of silence passed, every muscle in Dean’s body ached from the tension he’d been holding during his ‘first day of work,’ and he knew…

With the truth out, knowing exactly who was after Castiel, knowing this wasn’t an isolated incident: Dean knew if he wanted to do the job right, he needed to be ready.

He couldn’t treat it like a nine-to-five.

This was a twenty-four-seven commitment—his boss (or charge or whatever the fuck he was) just so happened to be the liability!

Dean needed a to-go bag ready, he needed to be surveilling Cas’ location for impending—he couldn’t believe he was going to say this—_Nazis_ to keep alive. And, while he sure as hell wanted those assholes to get their dues, it should come in the form of a life term in prison instead of a speedy death. 

Yeah…Dean was _ totally _into a swift ass-kicking, followed by a lifetime of suffering. Instead of attempted murder, based on Cas' status—it’d be an assassination, right? They’d be locked away for good! He believed in the justice system. Even when it didn’t believe in him. Especially not right now. Yeah, _not_ so much.

“Hey…I know you’re mad…” Sam’s open palm tentatively closed on his shoulder. “But do you think you can do this? I know you hate me, but this is worth it. I swear, Dean. What...what do you think about Cas?”

“I think…” he had to pause, because there were a million things he thought about Cas. Unfortunately, everything that came to mind was inappropriate. He couldn’t say what a hard-on he had for the dude in front of his brother! “I think I can handle him,” Dean decided, “I’m already off in the deep end, I’ll see this through.”

“Thank God,” Sam collapsed in on himself, his relief palpable. “You have no idea how happy this makes me.”

“I’m doing it because I signed a contract!” He pointed a very aggressive finger, then mumbled, “And because I could be blackmailed. And I don’t want people to die when they can hurt in better ways…”

“Nazis,” Sam reminded him with a grin.

“Nazis,” Dean agreed, actually laughing this time. “What the fuck have you roped me into, bitch.”

\-------------------------

It had been a long night.

After Sam’s, Dean needed some assistance from a bottle of Jack to get a wink of sleep before he found himself awake in the morning, rinsing and repeating.

The thing was: he had a lot of time to think. A ridiculous amount of time to do it. And during that time, he’d realized so many things were flawed, they’d been done all wrong—Dean was the guy who had to set the record straight. If he were to keep this job, maintain respect, and hold his head high: shit needed to change.

All of that began with a conversation. It had to.

Today was the first day of the rest of their lives...or whatever!

Showing up at Cas’ door this morning had Dean equally fired up, and as he prayed it was nothing like yesterday. He arrived with the words to correct their path poised on his lips, ready to go.

When Cas opened the door, at least this time, he was clothed.

Dean pushed inside the room and passed him, while explaining, “All right, we need a do-over! Lock the door, come over here!” He was followed with intrigue brimming over Cas’ edges. “I spoke to my brother. I don’t know how the hell you guys got involved, but I’m seein’ twenty-twenty and I know _I _can make this work. The question is: are _you_ going to work with _me_?”

Both men migrated, sitting down at the table and engaging in a stare down, while Dean geared up: ready and waiting to prove his intentions.

Cas crossed his legs and lingered—taking a moment to study both Dean and his words. “Yes, I would like that,” was _ not _what Dean expected.

He…had devoted blood, sweat and tears, every friggin moment of his sleepless night putting together this spiel! He'd slaved over his own defense of why Cas could trust him, the reasons he could prove a useful tool, and the ways to fight to convince him beyond a shadow of a doubt that it was the correct choice.

Now the dude rolls over—_like that?_!

“Seriously?” he deadpanned, “I thought you’d be diggin’ yer heels in the whole time.”

“Plans have changed.” Cas shrugged and leaned forward on the table, his scrutiny of Dean so intense he was starting to sweat. “I could see your aptitude and capabilities yesterday. We don’t need this ‘do-over,’ I think things went well. Unless, you have other plans to change the outcome?”

“The outcome?” Chuckling around the words and shaking his head, Dean vehemently agreed, “I wouldn’t change the outcome. Maybe the circumstances, but not the outcome.”

“Ah, but the circumstance of our situations and how we react to them is what proves who we are. What better way to get to know one another?”

Did Dean make up Cas’ tongue darting out, licking his lips, while he eyed him? Or was that real?

He cleared his throat, fighting against the hot-under-the-collar sensation with sarcasm: “Well, there’s the small fact that _you_ were the one who caused the circumstance, which renders it a moot point. With your theory of cause and effect, it means I don’t know anything about you.”

“That’s the fun of it. I, after all, am no one—but you are the Knight in Shining Armor. This is your story. You auditioned for the role of the protagonist and I’ve cast you,” Cas’ grin was wicked, even when he encouraged, “So why wouldn’t I work with you? This is the first chapter, and I must admit, I’m quite excited to see where this journey goes.”

The idea was meant to excite, it should've felt empowering and hopeful. Instead, Dean was terrified. Utterly terrified. 

“Okay…fair enough…I’ll…uh. Do my thing.”

“And I’ll do mine.” Cas nodded as an acknowledgement and stood up, beginning to peel his layers off. “I’m taking a shower.” By the time he was down the hallway, he was down to his boxers. _ Again_!

Goddammit, what was with Cas and getting naked?!

Dean glanced down and realized with horror that—in another twist of deja vu—his dick had begun betraying him. What the fucking fuck! So much for Shining Armor, instead; he had a cheap suit and an awkward boner. 

Standing up, Dean paced, trying to walk it off.

This hotel was the start of many.  
  
He would soon see apartments, too. Sometimes the occasional cheap motel if there was a threat of danger and Dean, himself, insisted on them going incognito. All of these various locations, he’d learn the layout until he was comfortable and familiar enough to walk through them in the dark.

Many of them, would echo this exact image: Cas being a little shit and leaving him with a one-liner and a hard-on. Because he _ could_. Because he enjoyed being the ringmaster behind their dynamic. 

Dean had a niggling feeling. The little shit had to have known ahead of time…Cas _ must _have been aware of Dean’s, uh, personal preferences before he even got the job. Dammit! Sam probably mentioned his recently ‘outted’ lifestyle and Cas was preying on it! It may have been one of the deciding factors in his being hired in the first place: Cas loved cat and mouse, he craved an additional element of enjoyment wherever he could snatch it up.

Add it to the growing list of reasons to kill his little brother. Another difficulty when it came to muffling his attraction to Cas and—

Hah. Yeah...right. Who was Dean kidding? It hadn't taken more than simply meeting the crazy fucker and he was dreaming about him. And those dreams were far from PG.  
  
Nothing in the world, nothing in the contract could’ve prepared him for Cas. But maybe underneath all the insanity and extra work he never could've accounted for (that he wasn't getting nearly enough payment to deal with) there were some hidden perks in the chaos, too...


	3. Chapter Two

At the beginning of this clusterfuck, Dean’s name on Cas’ tongue was something he lived for.

The tone he used, pitched deep and insistent—like he needed him—did things to Dean that he’d never admit. Until Cas _was_ insisting, and he truly did _need him_.

The first time it happened, Dean had been flipping through the newspaper, completely unaware.

Cas’ voice was matter-of-fact, getting his attention with a casual, “Dean,” like any other day in the life. Usually, he’d boss him around and ask for a coffee refill, Dean would groan and eventually cave.

When Dean paused reading, he noticed Cas’ eyes were curiously peering over his shoulder towards the balcony.

By the time he’d asked, “What’s up, Ca—?” Dean was already choking, latched in a headlock from an intruder sneaking up from behind.

His arms flew up as he shot to his feet. Dean was overcome as the surprise punched the air from his lungs and the goddamn strangle-hold cut off his breathing! Instead of clawing at the meaty arms, Dean angled a sharp elbow, punching backwards into his attacker’s stomach.

It worked, he was free—they both sucked in a breath and the painful grunt from the blow he’d delivered was fucking beautiful. But Dean didn’t have time to appreciate the little things...

His dance to side-step a chair and take advantage of the dude hunched over began. Dean’s window of opportunity was closing—

This was his job, he needed to keep him down! Find the fastest way to knock him out, or else Cas’ bad habit would _ end _ the dude for good!

Before he rose to his full height—this guy was roided-out and burly for a white dude—Dean slammed him in the spine with another elbow. Once he was doubled in half, his arms flew over him sideways—hauling and freezing him in place—positioned for a gut-wrenching knee to the stomach.

The guy shouted out and wheezed as he coughed up blood, desperately grappling out for the chair to steady himself. Hell no, Dean wouldn’t give him the chance. He swung him to the ground.

Midair, the sonuvabitch lashed out and managed to snag Dean’s arms, sending him plummeting down with him!

They rolled and tumbled on the floor, connected in a flurry of fists and tangled limbs, knocking over everything in their path like a furious tornado. Booming noises, crashes, clattering, bangs and thuds echoed through the room as their rumble intensified in chaos.

It was fucking _ ridiculous_!

They collided with the table, dumped a cup of hot coffee, the cup shattered on the dude’s skull and burned his shaved scalp. Dean managed to snag a decorative picture frame with his finger tips, using the impromptu sharp edge as weapon and shattering it against his face—and—jesusfuckingchrist—

In the middle of it all, he’d watched Cas casually lift his goddamn feet as the tussle rolled right past him. After they were outside his range, he planted them right back where they were and crossed his legs, sinking comfortably into the couch.  
  
His demeanor showing only inconvenience. The dick!

With his jaw throbbing and numb at the same time, Dean spat out blood from a well-aimed strike. The headshot made him dizzy. Up until now, he’d been playing fair but risking a concussion and tasting that metal tang in his mouth toed the line too far: that was the second he decided to end this.

One thing that kinda kicked ass was that Dean didn’t have to worry about police brutality. He wasn’t wearing a body cam, he couldn’t be held accountable for punishing the right kind of bad guy. The ones who deserved what was coming to them.  
  
He sure as shit didn’t have to worry about going too far when the alternative was death, right? It only then occurred to him: this was never to be a fair fight. He was trained to being a stand-up and honorable soldier but here, the rules didn't apply.  
  
Nope, the only thing that mattered was winning.

Dean finally shed his ‘hero complex’ and sent the guy reeling (and squealing like a stuck pig) after a perfectly-aimed cheapshot to the balls.

Then, Dean stole homeboy’s opener. Except, he did it the _right way_. Friggin idiot.

From the ground, he took full advantage of gravity once he wrapped the guy in a headlock. Even if he had Dean beat in weight and muscle, neither mattered without technique and wits.

While Dean fought against him—flailing limbs, choking, quivered jolts and all—he wondered: in the future...should he get a taser? A baton? A lasso?  
  
Sure, he had his gun, but that was in case of emergencies. If these behemoth skinheads kept coming, he’d need something to even the odds while Cas was sitting pretty and enjoying the show.

Finally, fucking _finally_, the guy went limp in his arms and passed out.

Once Dean released him, the deadweight clunked on the wooden floor. His shallow exhale was shaky, but this was a win, wasn't it? He refused to deal with another dead body on his watch! Double-checking for a pulse, he confirmed he’d only knocked him out. Yeah, he’d done it, he'd done it _right_: they were good.

After a massive sigh of relief, Dean slumped backwards against the wall, mulling over his next step.  
  
In all honesty, Dean’s anticipation of the event had been so great, he’d been so tightly wound wondering 'when,' he’d never given much thought to what happened _after_. He felt pretty fucking stupid now...because, fuckin’ _ obviously_, there was an after.  
  
It came with a countdown, a living, breathing human, and finite time until he woke.  
  
As Dean’s wheels turned, he glanced back to Cas who—

Was grinning.

Just sitting there, without a care in the world, grinning.

The entire fucking time, he hadn’t lifted a finger to help. Hell, he’d barely got Dean’s attention, much less gave him a motherfuckin’ heads up before he was jumped!

Instead, he enjoyed viewing the aftermath, tilting his head and saying, “I’m impressed. Well done, Dean,” and there it was: his name on that tongue. Just the way he liked it.  
  


  
“Yeah?” He huffed and tried to hide his displeasure, distancing the limp body (alive, thank you!) further away from his orbit with a haphazard kick. “Maybe you could learn a thing or two: _ that’s _ how it’s done.” Dean pushed his luck, his wink deliberate.  
  
Of course, flirting would be fun, but the most important thing was figuring out a course of action before he could enjoy the win. Technically, his job was only halfway finished. They couldn’t sink this one in a lake, but Dean knew one thing: “We gotta teach him a lesson.”

This concept perked _ someone _ right up. Cas was on the edge of his seat. God, if ever figured out the inner workings of his head, he’d write a book and make billions. A front-row seat to a life-or-death brawl bored Cas, yet the prospect of a brainstorming session on punishment gave him a hard-on?!  
  
Cas’, “I’m all ears,” was attentive and eager.  
  
He’d take it and roll with it. Whatever put them on the same page was irrelevant: Dean would rather have back-up than fly solo. This was, like, a team-building exercise or..._whatever._

“Whatcha got packed or on hand?” Dean flashed a smile, “I say we get creative. Dress him up _ real _ nice before we dump him off at the police station. I’ll bet you still have all your psycho-murder-gear—this _ was _ my first shot to prove I’ve got this.” Something a bit more impish wormed its way onto Dean’s face. “I’d say I passed the test. Your days of slice and dicing are over.”

“Perhaps...” the word lingered on his lips, for a half-second before remembering the question. His answer was prefaced scoffing in offense, and correcting, “It’s an ‘In Case of Emergency’ toolset, I always have one.” He emphasized his point by sweeping an arm to highlight the state of the room. “You’re clearly having a crisis. And my _ toolset _ will help aid your _ emergency_.”  
  
He issued one final challenge to Dean: “Would you disagree?”

“Whatever, dude,” came with rolling eyes. “I’ll jot down a reminder to bring you up when I give my Thanksgiving toast.”  
  
He waved Cas off and (thinking back to his Kill Bag Thingie) got an idea. “We can truss him up in duct tape. _Lots _ of duct tape. He’s gotta have a record—I’m gonna get my girl to run his name before our donation to the cops. Best part about homegrown domestic terrorists? They’re _ always _ in CODIS.”

“So far, this sounds wonderful.”

There was some digging around toppled furniture and beneath splintered wood before Dean located and then grabbed his phone from across the room. The linebacker impact had ejected it from his pocket and, in the wake of a trashed suite, he was lucky the screen hadn’t shattered.  
  
Maybe fortune did favor the brave, he turned to Cas while it rang and threw him a thumbs up. Right when he asked Cas, “Can you grab it? Let’s get him duct-taped, and—” happened to be when Charlie picked up the phone.

“Woah, there! How is _your_ afternoon going?” she leered at him, “Sounds extra kinky!”

“God, do I wish!” He could openly complain to Charlie, but right now: they had to get down to business. “I need you to run a search for me…_a-hah_!” Rummaging through his pockets yielded results, stupid white supremacists thought they were just that: coming in and out like they owned the place. Fuckin’ jackass didn’t bother leaving his wallets behind! “On Thierry Dunlop.”

“Okay, searching,” Charlie reported and casually wondered, “You gonna tell me what this is about?”

The dramatic shriek of tape ripping from the roll made Dean whirl around to a very, very focused (and arousingly) dom-looking Cas. His seamless confidence and surrounding energy of strength, that arched eyebrow, the way he flipped that overgrown, beefy piece of white trash around and expertly restrained his hands behind his back. Like it was nothing.  
  
…yeah, it _ was _ hot. Dean gulped.

“Helloooo? Earth to Dean!” Charlie was shouting in his ear. “I’ve got info, but I’m not handing it over until you tell me what the hell you’re doing with Mr. Dunlop!”

“Eh—” Dean’s focus was flitting back and forth between Charlie (you know, having the answers he sought) and Cas (_JesusChristAlmighty) _ who was taking this a step further and ripping off his shoes…his socks  
  
…his…jeans—?  
  
Oh no. Not again. But...yes, please, again—he’d willingly risk that heart attack if—

“_Dean_!”

“Sorry! It’s a guy I picked up for assault and battery, but the victim wants to remain anonymous. I wanted to know if there were any outstanding warrants, tickets or parole violations—any shit, really—I could get ‘im for if I dropped him off. He’s a real peach.” Dean lied through his teeth, and while he tried to sound professional...the giggles began.  
  
The more he watched Cas the less plagued he was by sexual frustration and the more he was downright delighted. With every circle he made, every wide tear and overlap, Cas’ masterpiece came to life.  
  
No longer able to hold back the giggle, Dean cracked up.

“Did you seriously just…u-use duct-tape to rearrange his junk—?!” Dean snorted out, while Cas pulled the man’s pants back up, effectively redressed him. His smirk was mischievous, happy with his work.

“Okay—what the actual hell!” The woman’s shrill voice demanded attention, “Talk to me! Because if you just effed this guy up? He totes deserved it. He’s a creep and piece of shit. He’s got domestics, robberies and assaults under his belt. _ All _ of ‘em are racially driven or crimes against women.”  
  
Nothing pissed Dean off more than a rap sheet like that. He only wished he’d gotten in more hits, maybe broken a few bones along the way.  
  
Thankfully, Charlie’s voice snapped him out of his escalating rage before he went back for more. “The point is, your ‘victim’ over there, who I’m guessing loves himself some duct-tape, shouldn’t be worried about the perp coming back for round two. Once we got this guy, he’s in for an extended stay. It looks like he’s a suspect in a homicide. Yesh, asshat’s graduated to the big leagues!”

Massaging his temples, Dean tried to will away the impending headache. “You’ve got no idea. Okay...” with a deep breath, he needed to explain (or attempt to emphasize), “Char, you deserve a head’s up, this new job I’ve got is a little tricky. I might be making more phone calls like this. I might ask favors you’re dying to know why, but we gotta respect the confidential part of my contract. Is that cool? Can I trust you to keep it on the DL and not hate me in the process?”

After an elongated pause, Charlie’s voice brightened: _that’s _ what trouble sounded like. “Only if you deliver Mr. Dunlop to _my_ precinct when he’s coming to. I want curbside service when he realizes he’s got a situation below the belt.”

“You’re the best! Damn right, I’ll make sure you’ve got a front row seat,” Dean promised, his relief tangible. “Talk soon, Char.”

“Later!”

When Dean hung up and began to turn, his spin took flight into a jump backwards and an embarrassingly high-pitched squeal. Cas was _right fucking there! _ He almost pissed himself!

“Dude, what the hell?!” he demanded, catching his breath for the second time today.

“Very interesting.” Cas’ voice held this…tinge of irritation. “You have a woman inside the department who’s willing to drop anything, do anything for you, with no questions asked. Blind faith is foolish on her part, unwittingly—”

“Woah!” Dean stopped him cold, baffled by where this was even coming from! “This ’woman?’ She’s no fool. Trust and faith is earned, she’s family—I’d do the same for her in a heartbeat. Furthermore; she’s _my_ contact. _I’m _ the one cleaning up _ your _ messes. Far as I can see, you don’t get an opinion on who I utilize and where I pull my resources, so long as it doesn’t implicate you. I believe I pulled that part straight out of your contract.”

Dean had gone from protector to petty to professional in the blink of an eye, but it appeared to work.

Slowly, Castiel quoted back, “‘As long as it doesn’t implicate me’, that stipulation sounds familiar,” and then dared to push it ever-so-slightly with the inquiry, “Is it fair to wager she’s your sister?”

“She may as well be.” His tone was absolute. “And I’m gonna make sure she takes a video of when this asshole wakes up. I gotta hand it to you: payback’s a bitch.”

“Instruct your sister to turn the sound on,” Cas suggested. “I have no doubt given the amount of pubic hair, he’ll be quite vocal.”

“Excellent!”

Dean sent Charlie that exact text. Easily, they fell back into a routine they were beginning to build.

It took both of them to roll his unconscious weight into Cas’ car, using the tinted windows as cover for their ‘anonymous’ donation.   
  
Dean anticipated this was the first of many and there was always a chance the truth could come out, he hoped depositing more derelicts and adding to the precincts workload and conviction rate would prolong the inevitable.  
  
Looking back at the time he spent with the police, he’d give himself the friggin Keys to the City. Dean was basically Batman! They couldn’t give him more than a slap on the wrist…  
  
Bigger bonus: not only was Charlie on their side, she was an excellent detective. She could steer the course of the investigation wherever she pleased, specifically focusing on neo-Nazis, prison bars and flushing the keys down a toilet.

Why go after the ‘vigilantes’ when they weren’t inflicting lasting damage? If worse came to worse, Dean could give them the bodyguard spiel. It’d be easy: acting in defense was literally his paycheck.  
  
In the meantime, Cas was his number one focus. The cops could wait.

…he hoped those weren’t his famous last words.

\---------------------------

If not for the contract, Dean would have gone full-out chick flick mode and spewed his guts into a goddamn journal.  
  
Nah, not even a ‘journal,’ that sounded too legit—scholars kept journals. The tales he intended to tell were cautionary. Unheard of. And downright fuckin’ moronic.  
  
This new chapter unfolding in his life was outrageous, so far fetching from what he once knew as reality that he’d take it a step further and commit to the bells, whistles and ruffles of a diary.  
  
Bring on all the shades of hot pink, princess tiaras, hearts, glitter and when he was cooling off from his last batch of frayed nerves—he’d use his comedown to bedazzle the living shit out of it.  
  
Dean would embrace his inner tween, snatch up a pack of rainbow pens on his next Hostage Kit run (better than a Murder Gear, right?) and—with that dreamy hum you see in the movies—talk about his day, his hopes, his dreams…  
  
….which stitches were the nearest to removing, if the ache in his leg was a bone bruise or a fracture...you know—girl stuff.  
  
_Dear Diary, _  
_ Today marked the first time I flew in a private jet. Since I’m kinda writing to myself, you already know I hate flying. In the Marines, there was a reason I fought on land and sea and not air. During a raid, I’d be the first person on scene with SWAT not only to catch the perp, but to get the hell out of the helicopter. _  
_ Just when I thought hallelujah! My time has come to keep both feet on the ground! Turns out, Cas has money. Lots of it. _  
_ You know what else he has? _  
_ A damn good eye and the worst sense of humor. _  
_ This shit ain’t funny. He figured it out and now the dick thinks anything over a hundred miles is ‘too long to drive.’ _  
_ Guess what? If he wants to play dirty from now on, we’re driving in 99-mile stretches and that’s that. Two can play this game. _  
_ Mark my words, if there ain’t an ocean to cross and we still wind up airborne—there WILL be engine troubles. No blackbox. And only one parachute. For me. _  
_ Until Next Time! _  
_ D.W._  
  
  
_Dear Diary, _  
_ Tried to make conversation with our uninvited guest today. _  
_ Until now, all we’ve gotten are grunts, battle-cries and bitchy whining about ethnic cleansing. Nothing to write home about. It’s crazy how they never end, there’s a steady supply being rolled on out like the parts are being stitched together on an assembly line. _  
_ Maybe this is the trial phase of manufacturing jobs Trump is promising the midwest. I’ll give him two stars: consistent product, shitty design. I’m telling you here, first, ‘cause if my review goes live I’ll be blocked and obviously deemed Fake News. _  
_ Anyway, it turns out that white nationalists aren’t much for small talk. Grunts and bitchy whining is all they do. I can also personally attest to this because maybe Cas’ pretty face got the best of me today. No. NO ONE IS DEAD. But...no one was...like...fully KO’d before delivery… _  
_ You know how guys always talk about their psycho ex girlfriends? Or their tendency for falling for the crazy chicks? I think I’m kinda falling for an actual clinically tried-and-true homicidal sociopath. _  
_ Cas ‘passing the time’ with some ‘retroactive payback’ and ‘inconvenience fees’ is how I know these wimps aren’t soldiers. Their allegiances are fragile and their minds are decaying from hatred. They heed one call, brainwashed beyond repair, and you know what it all amounts to in the end? _  
_ Grunting and whining. _  
_ It’s like their evolution stalled and (while I won’t condone it) all kindsa crazy or not, if a neverending rush of cavemen were making me sleeping with one eye open? It’d get old REAL fast. _  
_ I know, I know! I probably shouldn’t have given him a pass, but it was enlightening. It reaffirmed my belief and purpose, knowing what I’m doing here isn’t only money in my pocket—locking these bastards up is setting a domino effect into motion for the greater good. They have no place in society. And maybe it helped me understand Cas’ plight, if not Cas himself, a little better too. I don’t wanna jinx it, but good things are happening and we’re starting to feel like a team. _  
_ Xoxoxo _  
_ D.W._  
  
  
_Dear Diary, _  
_ I don’t fucking understand Cas at fucking all and I never fucking will!!!! _  
_ He drives me crazy!! I was so fucking close so many times to throwing my arms up and quitting on the spot! Of friggin course—what does he do? He threatens me before I can threaten HIM! Even when I’m right, doing everything right, he has to be MUCH more right than me or whatever. I GET IT, we can both be—but the second I say anything he doesn’t want to hear or I tell him ‘no’ he flips out and needs the upper hand. He’s the motherfucking cat whacking my shit off the table BECAUSE HE CAN _  
_ Like...if shit goes sideways and I ask for help, WHY wouldn’t you just shove the guy off me? WHY WOULD YOU GO INTO THE HALLWAY AND BREAK THE GLASS TO GET THE FUCKING FIRE AX AND SET OFF THE HOTEL ALARM SYSTEM AND COME IN SWINGING TO CUT OFF HIS HEAD WE’RE TRYING TO SAVE LIVES HERE _  
_ THEN after I save his ass on the fly, hide the hostage from the staff, calm AND apologize TO EVERYONE IN THE LOBBY and finally logically explain away why we needed the ax (CALL ME JESUS THAT WAS A MIRACLE) Cas has the balls to patronize me. _  
_ Say I was being dramatic. That he didn’t know “why I was all worked up, I was doing what I’m paid to, what anyone else would do” _  
_ REALLY? _  
_ BITCH PLEASE _  
_ Cover your own ass next time, save your flirting for someone you’re not gonna turn on and CALL ME LATER _  
_ Maybe tomorrow will be better, _  
_ D.W. _  
  
  
_Dear Diary, _  
_ It looks like Trump is gearing up to reveal his Midwest expansion or he’s catching on to Cas and my system and increasing his supply and demand model. _  
_ Giving Cas wiggle room, his last stunt with the ax, and dangerously close mishap today told me I can’t leave him unattended. Ever. _  
_ The drive from our current location to the PD is less than five miles. I drive passed all the right CCTV cameras, weave through back roads and reappear in parking lots while dropping off and heading back that anyone’s attempt to track isn’t just a headache—it’s nearly impossible. It takes three hours, we’re in the clear, another bad guy is off the street. _  
_ I took this guy down, fast. But when I got back, the Bed and Breakfast was in disarray. _  
_ No shit, I was confused, right? First thing that came out of my mouth (looking back) was a stupid: “Jesus, dude! If you wanted to get laid and needed more time why didn’t you tell me to hang back and give it to you?!” _  
_ So… _  
_ That earlier comparison between Cas and a cat? Yeah. It was spot-on, but today he was more like a lion. Poised to snarl and strike, the hair on his back and down his spine flew up, his eyes narrowing to slivers and I knew— _  
_ I fucked up. Big time. _  
_ Second glance at the room told me, oh, it wasn’t disarray (MY BAD for assuming a couple rounds with Cas could result in, uh, redecorating), the place was in ruins. Demolition. _  
_ I fully believe Cas was ready to fuck me up but these dull thuds two rooms away gave me an escape. I didn’t know what the hell to think but let me tell you...when I finally opened the armoire, I still don’t know what shocked me the most. _  
_ The fact a fucking SECOND hitman TODAY came tumbling out of from this itty-bitty compact space where he’d been crammed in...or the fact that Cas—we’re talking Castiel I-dismember-peeps-on-the-daily-and-what-I-find-more-offensive-is-your-fashion-sense Krushnic had used RESTRAINT. I wasn’t gonna take it for granted. _  
_ The guy was weeping inconsolably (little did he know he’d gotten off easy...or did he?) and had to be put out of his misery. _  
_ It was weird. The tension between us. _  
_ I wanted to tell Cas thanks, that he did a good job, but who knew his reaction? Would it do more harm than good? For the first time, we didn’t really enjoy doling out little bits of revenge. Like dumping hot sauce in the dude’s mouth before taping it closed or slathering him with Nair. You know, life’s simple pleasures. It was another job. _  
_ When I told Cas it would be better for him to join me on runs, he agreed. We began to drive a different route to the first station before I realized they’d be on alert and swapped destinations. This one was about fifty miles away. That meant all my dodging and weaving to avoid cameras lasted so much longer—way past sunset and into the night. It was waaaay too many hours of silence. Especially since I can never get a read on this fucker. _  
_ Usually, that’s my reflecting time. It’s hard as shit to reflect and plan when the object of both is sitting next to you. _  
_ Where the hell do you get those Take-A-Number machines? Cas has the money and these assholes are just dumb enough to wait in line like it’s the DMV. _  
_ ….Did I just solve the entire issue? I believe I did _  
_ Diary, I am so done with this, _  
_ D.W. _  
_ PS - I stand firmly behind my belief banging with Cas WOULD DESTROY A ROOM_  
  
  
_Dear Diary, _  
_ Here I am, yet again, hoping like a pining, needy teenager that Cas and I made a breakthrough. We had a really great night. ...We’ve had a lot of great nights, come to think of it... _  
_ It’s been over two weeks since we’ve taken out any trash. I’m inclined to believe the two-for-one was a case of illiterate douchenozzles who couldn’t read the schedule and now, Neo-Nazi Monthly, hit a snag rearranging their line-up for the newsletter _  
_ The interesting thing I’ve come to notice is Cas and me...our...uhhhhhhhhhhhh…’disagreements’ only happen when our professional opinions differ. _  
_ Sure, we bicker. But that’s all in good fun. _  
_ And this is SO GODDAMN CHEESY, but I think he’s been on his own so long he doesn’t know how to give up control. BUT I could argue...HE signed the contract, too. Black and white rules say—he should abide. Leave this stuff up to me. _  
_ I think this could work if we play our parts and trust each other. I really do. This sketchy reprieve has been awesome (but I’m on edge and counting down for the next attack) not to mention the LACK of arguing is even better. _  
_ Maybe this is real progress… _  
_ D.W._  
  
  
_Dear Diary, _  
_ Cas thought it was urgent to have breakfast in Houston. Then he was ‘hankering’ for lunch in Dallas. SUDDENLY, dinner in Houston sounded like the RIGHT CALL. And then it was IMPERATIVE to spend the night in Dallas. Evenwhenwe’redueinHoustontomorrow. _  
_ I AM LIGHTING THIS MOTHERFUCKER UP _  
_ THIS JET WILL BE A COMET OF FIRE EXPLODING ON THE HORIZON _  
_ WE’RE BOTH GOING DOWN TOGETHER _  
_ See you in hell _  
_ D.W._  
  
  
Well, shit. That’s the kind of diary Dean liked...yeah, he should just do it, it was...cathartic.  
  
His day to day was a caricature of a B-Grade action movie. Who on Earth would take his world seriously? No way in hell any DA would admit that kind of evidence into a courtroom, not without being a laughing stock and begging for a dismissal.  
  
Yeah, he totally should—in the long run, it could very well be his get outta jail free card.   
  
Dean mused over the phrase “stranger than fiction,” but....his life dissolved into insanity. Each day welcomed the ludicrous.  
  
He was wrapped up in a Quentin Tarantino-esque Groundhog’s Day loop: the neo-Nazis, cuts and bruises, creative gift-wrapping, alive-and-well body-dumps and lost security deposits went around and around and around. The only thing moving forward was his relationship with Cas.  
  
At least that part _ was _ progressing. It hadn’t been caught in the time-loop, doomed to begin again and again. Forced to reestablish trust, to build a rapport, to feel comfortable in each other’s company and specifically: for Cas to readily admit Dean was capable of handling the job.  
  
It took an experienced retail worker a few paychecks to gain acceptance in their field once they proved they were qualified. Hiring workers already aware of their duties was usually a relief.  
  
And see: Dean wasn’t demanding praise. He hadn’t even been looking for thanks.  
  
Dammit, he knew what he was doing and so did Cas! His resume and accolades spoke _ for him. _ It felt like an eternity—the longest time went on before so much as a half-assed compliment passed his lips.  
  
...about the job he was doing.  
  
Cas had no problem with slightly different compliments. Some were more direct than others...  
  
Like his smart-ass, “Oh. You used a mirror while getting dressed this morning, I see” or “A half-splash more cream, and you’ll make a decent cup of coffee yet.”  
  
Those called for eye-rolls. But there were others that made Dean want to duck and take cover like he was being sprayed with bullets.  
  
Castiel had insisted on helping him dress a nasty wound after Dean had been woken up in the middle of the night. He’d been complaining, leaning on the counter in his boxers when a long pause extended and, yes, his side was still bleeding.  
  
When he turned around, he saw Cas unabashedly staring at his butt and, knowing he was seen, didn’t bother with pretense. He never did.  
  
“I apologize, I never realized how fantastic your ass was. You’re constantly disguising it in hideous, unflattering pants.” Like Dean could even _ have _ a response, like he _ wasn’t _ dry-mouthed and red-faced, Cas squinted at him, “Why do you do that?”  
  
“W-w-w-what do you expect? I show up in fuckin’ _ spandex_?” was the only thing he could stammer out.  
  
Castiel had shrugged, “That’s a better alternative than your current choice,” and returned to stitch up the gash.  
  
That was the night Cas decided Dean’s physique was fair game.  
  
He was never, like, overtly creepy or inappropriate, Dean knew that Cas wasn’t buttering him up for anything, he was always taken at face value.  
  
So those throw-away comments about his arms, his freckles, even his lips (and recurrently, his rear) did much more to raise Dean’s heart rate than any walls. It was the first time he’d been complimented so much by anyone he wasn’t in the middle of hooking up with.  
  
This was the normal kind of filtration used to string someone along, to keep them coming back. Cas did it out of the blue while they were being escorted by a high-ranking board member to get things out of his safe deposit box before a big meeting.  
  
Cas was difficult as fuck to read! And, no, Dean didn’t have Daddy Issues. He wasn’t desperate for acceptance and love and gooey shit, thankyouverymuch—   
  
It was, like....they created the job for him. Dean was saving lives, and Cas’ freedom, with every passing day. What fool would willingly sign up for this?!  
  
Oh yeah—he _ was _ that fool.  
  
The kind of aiding and abetting, felony and partner and crime fool. But at the same time...   
  
He was a fool who was happy to finally find his purpose. A fool who excelled at his tasks and was desensitized to blurred lines and grey shades from the good ol US of A, not Cas. Was Dean all that foolish to sink into this new normal and roll with the punches? Foolishly enjoying someone’s company and (possibly) continue building a friendship...or whatever.

Absolutely. His fool-ass certainly was.

\-------------------------

“Dean—”

By now, the odds of a fight-or-flight situation was fifty-fifty but Dean’s countdown to figure out which was nonexistent.

First, he’d drag his eyes towards Cas for a tell. That was his first mistake. He kept making it and hadn’t broken the habit!   
  
This stupid-fucking-play always bit him in the ass, Cas’ expression never gave anything away, yet Dean was aching for the day he’d catch The Sign.  
  
By the time he saw those baby blues focused elsewhere, his guard shot up and he rushed to the offensive to see who would land the first blow. Would he catch the threat in time? Or was another suckerpunch en route to his mug?  
  
Cas was a lot of things (intelligent, witty, hot as hell) but as a security system...he was fucking worthless. 

Finally, friggin _finally,_ Dean had left his happy place (where, you know, Cas just wanted to talk, hang out, chill with him and shit) he’d have enough time to react, to whirl around and find the incoming douche bag.

This time?

Dean didn’t have a clue _what_ to do—   
  
‘Incoming’ had never been so goddamn literal!

“What the fucking—_fuck—_” he spat, making an attempt to lunge away from an incoming Tarzan—   
  
Who the hell hops up on a friggin _ second-floor-window, _ uses it as a vantage point and then decides—huh, I can _ totally _ make that dive—and flings themselves over the railing at their target?!  
  
Horror washed over Dean as the man got bigger, having launched himself straight for where they’d been sitting, poolside.

With these assholes growing fearless and bold, Dean was only _really_ left with one option.

He had to throw his own body at an angle and use that collision to knock them both into the pool. It pissed him off for the sole fact that he was hurting himself because if he didn’t: this nut-job was going to break his neck and go 'splat' on the pool deck!

As both their bodies splashed onto the still surface, plummeting into the world’s largest cannonball, making Dean wonder: Did they send out a memo? Did the Alt-Right know he was hired specifically _ to keep them alive_? And that was why they resorted to this bullshit daredevil stuff in a cruel twist of fate?! 

They knew all their comrades—the ones normally facing a death sentence who used to drop off the face of the Earth—were instead, turning up at the police station. Dean was the only changing factor. That must have been why he’d become the target.  
  
Again, there couldn’t be a group more brain dead! Without him, they didn’t stand a chance in hell—did they _want_ to return to the slaughter?!

One thing was certain: Dean was struggling for air as they grappled underwater.

Although Mr. Kamikaze had gotten the chance to hold his breath, it didn’t matter. Not really. If there was one thing that came naturally to Dean, even after all these years? It was the ease and second-nature of taking someone down in these exact circumstances.

Between Cas’ (minuscule) head’s up, and Dean’s advantage—it wasn’t even funny how fast he’d regained control over the situation.

Dean wrangled and pinned him down, quickly hauling his flailing body back up on the pool deck and slapped him stupid for good measure. “You dumbass! Were you trying to kill yourself?!” One more solid blow landed him unconscious.

Unaware he’d been moved by intrigue, Cas pitched forward in his chair, pushing his sunglasses up on his head, his eyes widening. “Very….very impressive. That has to be a new record.”

“Did you time it?” Dean couldn’t help himself—he felt cocky and his word dipped down into a register that was brazenly flirtatious.

It was a fact: Cas was never shy, but for some reason..._he_ was the one holding back. “Would you like me to? I can download an app, but I’m afraid if you ever need me to step in—”

“That’s against the rules, and you know it.” Dean shrugged and bit his tongue before he said the ‘ax’ word. “Besides, this’ll probably hold up as the high score. He came to my home court.”

“Ah!” Understanding lit up in Cas’ eyes. “How could I forgot? Once a Marine, always a Marine.”

“Yer damn right.”

As Dean finished his climb out of the pool, he glared at his own heavy and sopping clothes. He continued his walk, shoes squelching with every step, to see the same problem weighing down their flying assassin. “Guess we’ll have to let him air-dry before our usual duct-taping, huh?”

“Or we could use the chance to expand on our creativity. You, on the other hand…” Dean almost jumped a mile high when he felt Cas’ touch wrap around him, the feeling of his fingers unbuttoning his shirt from behind. “Now you have a reason to lay out and relax. Like I requested of you from the start.”  
  
“Huh...that’s awful handy. Sloppy and easy take-down means you get your way? Maybe you planted him.” Dean tried to maintain his humorous intentions, to keep his words light, but they were too...airy.

There was Cas being Cas. He was back again, matter-of-factly seducing him in ways….well, he’d never friggin know what he did to him, now would he? Which was why Dean needed to stop those hands before they wandered too far—  
  
Before he could, something else, something..._unexpected _ happened.

They both felt a flicker of warmth and were drawn into one another’s magnetic field and kind of…lingered there. Just, like, stealing a peaceful moment of soaking each other in. Of Cas so goddamn close behind him, less than an inch away he’d feel his chest brush his back, and their hands felt right at home folding together.

Dean hadn’t realized how far he’d let himself sink in, basking in the moment (why was Cas even letting him?!) until his brain caught up—red flags and all—and he realized it was wrong.

He maneuvered the grip around and pretended he’d been intent on using it as leverage the whole time, spinning them in jest and boisterously announcing, “Well, a Nazi a day, right? Guess we’re due!” Dean chuckled nervously and agreed, “That could work out, I guess…I mean, I could relax for a little bit. Do you, uh, have any extra swim trunks?”

To be honest? He was kind of trying to get away from Cas because when he’d flipped around the expression facing him looked (and felt) too good to be true. No, hell no, he couldn’t dwell on 'what ifs'. Let alone _ hope—_Cas wasn’t like that, he was—

“Help yourself. You know where all my belongings are,” Cas waved him on. They were currently staying at one of his rentals and, yes, Dean was familiar with the property, inside and out. “I’m sure you’ll be just as effective with less clothes on.”

When he heard Cas’ quip, Dean had already begun walking, but he called back to him over his shoulder, “Home turf!”

“I mean it!” Just to get in the last word, and maybe as revenge, Cas added a nonchalant, “You will not be traipsing through my residence like a drowned rat. Remove your clothing at the sliding door!”

Goddammit, Cas’ only motive was ‘a reason’ to get his ass on full display, _he_ was the rat!

Fine! He’d give it to him. _And_ Dean took a cheap shot once he saw Cas' back turned, chucking his boxers on a collision course for Cas’ head!  
  
The loud, wet slap stopped Cas in his tracks before he spun around in utter delight. “Why, Dean, you’re being—”

“Watch the prisoner!” He growled, his order changing Cas’ delight to glee and he knew why. That’s why he had to add, “Please, don’t kick him in the pool. I'm serious!”

“…Nudge?”

“I _swear to God_, Cas—”


	4. Chapter Three

“Dean!”  
  
Fuck, what was it this time?! But the better question was _ how—_?

He couldn’t have been better prepared...this didn’t make sense!  
  
Not only had Dean set up shop in the suite’s living room, he’d planted his ass in an awkward corner solely for its vantage point. He wasn’t contorting his body to watch TV for fun, it gave him a sight line.  
  
To pick up on any noises, footsteps, creaks, he’d pressed mute and turned on the subtitles, to boot! There was no fucking way any unwanted guests could’ve slipped passed him—   
  
Dammit, just when he thought he’d figured it out—plopped between the door and the balcony—these assholes must have learned their lesson and turned to some Next Level spy shit.  
  
How the ever loving fuck _ else _ could someone have slipped past him and gotten to Cas?!  
  
Maybe the factory upgraded, the new model was half douche and half worm—

Clearly, he’d gotten comfortable with his ‘genius strategy’ and his sense of accomplishment went to shit. Lesson learned: he’d _never_ be good at this!

Even the scramble to get up was a mess: it wasn’t until Dean’s feet were peddling across the floor that he realized one was half-asleep. Skip passed some embarrassing flailing arms to keep himself upright (and a knocked over chair later) and he mustered up the sheer willpower to regain control of his renegade limbs.  
  
Dean darted down the small hall and swung around the corner, each footfall picked up speed until he burst into the bedroom.  
  
He refused to take any chances—these were close quarters and if someone had already gotten this far, they weren’t only stealthy, they were _ damn good—_Dean drew his gun.

Hitting the lights made his blood run cold.

His heart was in his throat, Dean was choking on in, because under the harsh lights of the room: there was no sign of Cas.  
  
Not only was he sickened by the visual onslaught of a million images, Dean was impossibly more overwhelmed by questions—   
  
The only window in the master bedroom was fixed close. No one could friggin open it if they wanted and the condition was still pristine! If the glass hadn’t shattered, how had they gained access, how hadn’t Dean noticed, and where could Cas have gone?!  
  
God, the memory of Cas using the closet for safe keeping, maybe he was under the bed, Dean had to clear the room and _act_ instead of freaking out, what was wrong with him—?!

_ Holyfuckingshitfuck_, Dean jolted out of his skin when a voice suddenly cropped up inches away, the puff of air warming his cheek, the words and the voice flooded him with _ incomprehensible _ relief!   
  
He never could’ve imagined the joy of listening to Cas say, “That won‘t be necessary, Dean,” as he gestured to the firearm. Except...once the relief washed over him, confusion took its place. Especially when Cas informed him, “There’s no one here but us.”

Funny thing was, Dean wasn’t miffed or put-out. Not at all. He couldn’t even fake it for the cameras. Who knew just how much he cared and how straight-up _ tickled _ he could get over a false alarm?  
  
Yeah, this was a good time to laugh at himself, and he admitted, “Whew. It’s like Pavlov’s Dog, dude. You say my name: I think Stranger Danger and hustle. It…shouldn’t be that way, should it?” After holstering his weapon, he shook off the tension and was only granted a half-second glance at Cas before—

He flipped the switch, killing the lights.

“No, I don’t believe it should.”  
  
The escalating confusion was useless, it would drain Dean because Cas _ always _ had a motive and he was quick to share. Fuck, it was tough, but Dean refocused and honed his nervous energy to awareness, to understand his surrounding.  
  
Although, it was hard to be prepared for Cas taking his hand—a sensation familiar and foreign at the same time—while his tone, the evident amusement, was a daily occurrence: “Perhaps we’ll need to re-train you. While I’m thrilled adrenaline spikes through your vein when I say your name; it’s the wrong kind.”

Oh, holdonthere—Dean knew every inch of this joint, his walk-throughs were detailed, it was his first task whenever they crossed a threshold at a new location—and lights or no, he could map out the entire layout. Why Cas was leading him towards the bed had him clueless, but—wait—no way.

_ This was happening. _ Dean wasn’t imagining it. Which meant Cas had totally abused his power to lure him here, throw him off his game and ambush him! The only reason he hadn’t hyperventilated (yet) was the chance—damn _ lucky—_glimpse of grey he’d caught before everything went dark.  
  
Cas was in rare form: every time he had the privacy, he went full-frontal! The fact he was wearing boxers was rarer than a solar eclipse, keeping Dean’s heart attack in these beckoning moments as he pulled him closer and closer to wet-dream-heaven—

Swallowing hard, Dean stammered and tripped over the words, “Y-yeah, ‘pose it _is_ a helluva rush. Y-you can’t blame me, you’ve n-never gotten my attention for anything short of’a cracked rib.” In his mind, he was grappling for motive, fishing for what Cas’ endgame was—but Dean lacked the finesse to pull off _ thought_. Let alone _ say _ anything suave. “L-like, it could still happen. You crackin’ my rib. Now. What—”

“See? This is an excellent example of why we need to redirect your energy. Break old habits,” Cas’ timbre, his grin in the darkness was something devilish, enticing, and way too convincing.

The ground disappeared, having been forcefully pushed back with his ass landing on the edge of the bed. According to his mental map, Dean was still the closest to the door—a tid-bit that gave him _ some _ control, whether it was his idea or not—  
  
When Cas took his gun and set it on the nightstand, he knew the choice was deliberate. Bartering silently, showing Dean he could still do his job without coddling him. Huh…  
  
Maybe he’d take the offer, that this could work...but did he dare to hope? Like so many other times, this felt too good to be true. That this could be reality—after friggin _ months _ and _ months _ of wet dream and jacking off in the shower—and Cas was here leading him, he wasn’t confusing it with porn again.

The late hour meant Dean’s jacket was long gone. His tie didn’t stand a chance—Cas made quick work with its loops—and soon honed in on the shirt.

God, it was sexy...the way he held his height over Dean while he toyed with each button before it popped, light poured in from the window, bouncing off the muscles spanning his chest and cascading over his flexing core...  
  
Being in on the surprise Cas was hiding underneath his suit from _ the moment they fucking met _ was a special kind of Hell. Knowing didn’t ruin anything, it did the opposite: it tortured Dean. Haunting him, tempting him, leaving him to his own devices: which meant fantasizing about Cas since day one.  
  
His hunger was bad before, now it was unbearable. Dean’s want to touch. With his hands and his lips. Now they were inches away—

…but…

It wasn’t only about Cas being sexy. He liked him. No matter how much he drove him batshit crazy, _ Dean _ was the idiot with _ feeling_! And this was his employer!  
  
Looking past the work-place-romance, together they carried a heavy secret. Would slapping yet another complication on their relationship strengthen them, or push a delicate matter—a balance that shouldn’t work, but did—to the tipping point?

Once Cas had undressed Dean from the waist up, he detected a sobering note floating in the air (damn, maybe Dean didn’t give him enough credit—Cas _ could _ read him, huh?) and responded. By pausing. Wow, he was full of surprises tonight, wasn’t he?  
  
Of course, a lot was going on in Dean’s head (and while he never thought Cas would pick up on it) that didn’t mean he wasn’t internally shrieking for joy.  
  
Maybe it was him feeding off Cas’ vibe this time: having no reservations about reaching out and catching hold of his waist. ...And maybe once he knew what Cas’ skin felt like beneath his touch, he indulged a tad more by brushing his thumbs against his hip bones.  
  
How could he _ not?_ Dean had never seen anything more fuckin’ delicious in his life. He gave himself permission; setting a sweeping tempo in the midst of the lull.

Both had paused on a strained inhale, like they were holding their breath, but it had to be Dean who broke this stalemate...no matter how shocked he was at Cas’ discretion and his ability to stop in the first place.  
  
Dean knew this wasn’t the right time—but his normally pushy, and self-absorbed crush clearly showing he cared proved something. Cas wasn’t spoiled, he wasn’t fundamentally warped from having his way, nor ignorant to social cues, as he seemed.  
  
Those exaggerated and theatrical traits were part of the mask. The one he’d created to deal with constant threat, an environment of hate, death, and maybe a darker side of him. And...now Dean was pretty sure he was fucked—

Unsure what to say, it came out as a clunky, “What do you want to get out of this?”

Yeah, Cas was equally quizzical—at least he took a moment to think it over.

He came to a conclusion with a shrug of his shoulders. “An evening of extremely physical, passionate sex resulting in exchanged orgasms.” Well, Dean turned bright red under the cover of night, but Cas wasn’t quite done, he didn’t miss a beat— “I’m hopeful for compatibility. Both carnal and emotional. We already have a connection. We’ve established trust. I want to take the next step and see if something’s there.”

“Wait—” Dean’s hands fell away, he was blind-sided, stunned—when Cas picked up where he’d left off disrobing him that part didn’t even register—because, _ duh_, they had a flirtationship, but...Cas was into it? Not just ‘into it,’ but ‘pursuing’ it! Them? Whatever...   
  
Boot camp was a breeze compared to asking, “You’re actually looking for something? I mean, more than just sex?”

“Of course.” Typical of Cas: he was flippant, matter-of-fact. “I could have easily lured you into my bed at any time. I saw how you watched me upon our initial meeting, I noticed you never stopped. I can’t count how many times I nearly gave in to impulse, but I held back—your reputation intrigued me. I couldn’t write you off until I gauged your worth and you...far exceeded my expectations. For both reasons and incorrect impressions, I’m glad I waited; I’m optimistic this will be worth it.”

“Waitaminute, so—” Dean’s words were overpowered by the moan escaping his chest as Cas‘ hands laid him out on the bed. It looked like he was missing…well, everything, besides his boxers! Damn, Cas was good...

No matter how impeccable his view, Dean was having trouble following Cas’ trail and he knew enough to know he’d only get one shot. Their bodies were finding a pace—drawn together like they were made from the same cloth and he didn’t have the strength or fight to keep them apart—and it would be easier to let go.  
  
The pull between them was electric, all-consuming, and who knew when Dean’s head would depart from his body? This wasn’t fair, his upstairs brain harassing the hell out of him, complaining they sort this shit out before diving in the deep end!

Dean cleared his throat, Cas’ face cradled in his palms to keep him at bay, and it physically _hurt him—_

Because Cas was gonna kiss him. A concept that weakened his knees and made his heart ache.

Christ, anticipation gave a voice to his lungs, feeling each ragged inhale, even when he fought for control. When he was racing against his own excitement, the winner was clear. In fact, it was in the middle of a victory lap when Dean haphazardly wondered, “So this is your usual MO? You go ahead and check off the ‘tumble in the sheets’ box, before—”

“No, Dean. _God_, no—” It wasn’t Cas outburst of laughter that felt like a fist around his heart, but his retreat. “There’s nothing normal about this. About what’s transpiring between _ us_. All my attempts in naming what I may feel…” He pursed his lips, huffed a sigh and started over. “I’ve tried to understand and pick apart my fondness of you. I’ve looked to the past for answers, comparing, relating, trying to find the missing link that could give me answers—_what _ I need to justify everything. It has only frustrated me and confirmed I was right all along—you’re unique. Exceptional. And, I’m sorry to tell you, we’re venturing out into the unknown.”  
  
This was the first time in Dean’s fucking life he’d ever heard anyone so pissed off they were _ right_, while remaining collected(ish), in the middle of a crazy, thesis of an almost-but-not love confession. It felt his mind reeling!  
  
“And regarding my ‘MO’?” Cas clucked his tongue, rolling their aching erections together in an indulgent move, making Dean shout out in surprised pleasure. “I can no longer keep my hands to myself.”

“Holy shit—” Dean couldn’t stand the distance any longer, not after all _ that_. "—I know the feeling—” 

He exchanged his hold on Cas (screw giving them space to talk) whirling his arms around his neck and hauling them together. Their lips collided in a mind-blowing kiss and Dean held on for dear life.

No way, no way in hell Dean could’ve prepared himself for the ‘click’—latching them together when their walls came tumbling down.  
  
Exploring and experimenting with pressure, intensity, what drove the other crazy led them down a road they would never dare go down without trust. It turned out, trust was worth its weight in gold.  
  
It allowed them to push and pull at boundaries, freely worshiping each other’s mouths, their hands roaming and their hips rolling in an accelerating rhythm. That carnality Cas wondered about aloud? They’d brought their goddamn A-Game.

Fists wound up tugging and tangled one another’s hair, teeth and tongues played rough along tender necks, and the now-frantic, hungry fight for who was on top—

Dean was going to be sore tomorrow.

His muscles would remember each time Cas threw him down, wrestled him back to be on top, and pinned him all over again—‘til he was _ useless—_while driving him crazy.

And that was the thing, it was all fun and games: Dean loved the rowdy physicality (he lived for this) because, even though it hadn’t exactly been a conversation topic, he wanted Cas _to take._

Those were the thoughts filling his head when he made himself cum. And Cas seemed like a guy who’d eagerly do just that.

…Unless he wasn’t. In the past, Dean had been misjudged and targeted as a top solely based on his appearance, what if Cas was too? They could make it work no matter what…right? Totally. Dean was way too stubborn to throw in the towel now. There was only one way to find out!

Dean unlocked the final door standing in their way—tearing away both he and Cas' boxers—his first real move from defense to offense.

They’d been fisting each other through fabric, smearing precum over barely-exposed cock heads. Now, they were slotted together, flesh against flesh, and Dean took them both into his spit-slick palm.

“I-If you’ve been waiting, holding off so long, that means you gotta be prepared, right?” Dean captured Cas’ earlobe, tugging it between his teeth, teasing, “I mean, yer prepared for _everything_. Fucking me is an easy one, right?”

Once it was finally out there in the open, Dean swore to God he could see a fire ignite. Like his words were the gasoline that caused an explosion and the roaring flames reflected in Cas’ brilliant blue eyes.

Vibrating from desire, Cas persisted to ask, “And you’re sure, Dean?”

“Holy hell, yes. And keep sayin’ my name like that, you’ll retrain me before the night is through,” his voice sounded more like a husky purr, kissing Cas speechless: because he _could_.

Dean was taken aback (it never failed!) when Cas stayed put and continued on—using his lips and tongue to rock his goddamn world. The surprise came when he multi-tasked: reaching out and pulling open the nightstand drawer, his stash directly underneath where he’d set Dean’s firearm.

This fact made his ever-growing confidence soar—tonight he saw Cas as an equal, where they’d been on different playing fields in the past. Dean had the gumption to bait him: “How many times? How many times have you been optimistic and set those aside? Biding your time, looking for yer chance?” 

Cas snickered, coating his fingers in lube. “Too, too many times.” He gently worked his first digit with ease, sliding in and out of Dean’s hole. “All the evenings I had planned were interrupted. By Nazis. Or fatigue from Nazis. Whenever I see you’re asleep, I’d never dare to wake you for selfish reasons. I understand the job is trying, it’s exhausting...whenever you’re able to rest, I want you to. It's so seldom you give yourself a break.”

Even though his brows furrowed together, wanting to ask a question, Dean found he was way too busy whimpering into the sensation of Cas scissoring him open. His two fingers twisted and stretched—rubbing against his rim with a coaxing touch to relieve some of the tension. And when Cas brushed his prostate—whew! He’d let him keep talking as long as he wanted!

“Tonight, I decided to be selfish,” Cas flickered his tongue over Dean’s nipples, shocking yet another wave of electricity through his system. “I also noted how much espresso you drank at dinner.”

The strangest moan-snicker-whine noise rumbled out from Dean, prompted by the three fingers buried knuckle-deep inside him and...Cas being Cas— he eagerly agreed, “I’m happy. Y-you were selfish. God knows I’m not brave enough—”

“You’re plenty brave, Dean. You’re the bravest man I’ve met.” His words were laced with reverie—in disbelief that Dean didn’t believe in himself. “I imagine you would’ve, if I hadn’t grown impatient.”

“You know, now that you mention it...” His hand shot down to wrap around Cas’ cock, giving him a few taunting, swift jerks. “I’m gettin’ real impatient: for this.”

“_Perfect_.”

Events unfolded so damn fast—Dean could barely keep up—Cas leaving him empty, while his body demanded to be filled with something better in the midst of all their anticipation and months of build-up. A condom was ripped from the foil, Cas rolled it down his dick at the same time he was reaching for the lube again. In the next blink, Cas coated his cock, the bottle was discarded somewhere on the floor, and he was spreading Dean’s legs—

“I’d like to watch you—” Cas’ eyes dragged over every inch of his body, and soon—his blunt cockhead spiked a sharp pain working beyond his rim.

Dean only realized there was a question—and he guessed some kind of confirmation needed—once Cas’ cock was already slowly sliding inside him. With a fizzling brain, the only thought running on loop in Dean's head was how his own fingers and fantasy could never compare to experiencing the real deal—  
  
Through furious nods, his arms shot out to clutch Cas’ hips but overshot and grabbed his ass instead (happy accident!) that resulted in Dean tipping Cas off balance and pitching forward—their bodies slammed together, becoming one.

Luckily, Dean had been prepared for Cas’ size, but Cas—always in control—had not been ready for the subsequent onslaught of pleasure.  
  
Which made Dean double-lucky. Blessed with the rarest of sights: Cas utterly captivated, losing control of _himself_ for the first time—literally, Dean had never seen anything like it, _ever—_swimming against the tide to save face. To be more than a slave to pleasure, but he was drowning.

Still, he couldn't help but wonder: what was wrong with that?

After having tasted the smallest piece, Dean craved more. Jesus, he wanted to knock Cas off his game and keep him guessing. He'd never dreamed how goddamn delicious seeing Cas, obsessed with control, out of his depth would be. Yet, Dean ached to keep it out of reach. To see him flounder, to see him overcome by pleasure, to know that _he did this to Cas..._it made his mouth water—

Dean's inexplicable thirst fueled him—he sunk his in nails to gain more traction on Cas’ rear, yanking them together. Using brute strength and practiced expertise, Dean ground their bodies together and clenched his muscles around Cas’ dick for good measure.  
  
Gasping out and racked by shivers, Cas knew exactly what Dean was doing. Determination turned into something fierce as Cas swatted his hands away—but Dean already won the round.

In a flash, Cas pinned him down by the shoulders (not just _ on _ the mattress, but _ into it—dearlord_!) and growled out a sound that was primal: purely animal.  
  
—_and_ dripping with sex—Dean questioned if he was gonna make it out alive—

“You feel better than I could've imagined,” Cas panted out, tossing their games aside and setting a pace, Dean knew his short-lived rebellion was finished. But that was a’okay, Cas pumping into him was fucking awesome. “From the moment you arrived at the door, you’ve been a constant temptation—”

“A-as you’ve said...” Dean smiled while caressing the arms acting as iron restraints against him, adding his own tender approach and even (dare he say?) intimacy, “I wish I’d known you were for real. N-not makin’ jokes.”

“You should know by now; my humor aligns with my truth. It makes things much simpler.”

A chain reaction happened, Cas' rough exterior melting—his every move warming up—faced with Dean’s sweeter touch, he responded in turn. Even as his hips pistoned forward, well-oiled and resolute against his prostate, his lips descended with a newfound affection. Reciprocating and advancing what Dean started and…

Dean fucking adored him for that.

His fearlessness was something Dean had always envied. Cas’ ability to go further, to test the waters and see if it felt right. And….everything about them _ did_. Both sides of the coin: the messy, sweaty-rowdy-sexy side, and now the profound beginnings of romance, the pieces of them craving deeper connection.

And they _found it—_found each other—

When Dean came, all he could think about was getting closer.

He wanted to hold—to be held—tighter, to hear Cas’ heartbeat, his moans, to know all this _was real_.

Their short-hand extended to body language, Cas picked up on it immediately. As he scooped an arm under Dean’s back, he was arching off the bed, crying out in pleasure, giving Cas the leverage to pull them flush while he continued to move. Hell, it was easy—with Cas chasing his own orgasm, Dean’s release aided the slide of their bodies, now mixing with their sweat, and covering them both stomach to upper thigh.

Dean was on cloud nine; he could feel the heat, hear his heartbeat, but better than all that?

Cas was chanting his name, making good on his promise—  
  
And that's what cemented the reality of tonight in Dean's memory. Even in his dreams, he'd never gone so far as to wish for something this fantastic...

Maybe now Dean wouldn’t associate his name with danger, maybe he could have both: pleasure and his instincts unimpaired. After all, his response _was_ still running on a Level Red terror alert. He’d always answer the call like a fire drill, but his name was capable of lighting two kinds of fires: both he’d be running _towards_, which was ironically the story of his life...

“Cas, cum for me,” Dean mixed awe with his praise as he watched Cas glisten, each movement highlighted through sheer muscle, and hearing Cas abso-fucking-lutely electrified from his words?

Magic. That’s what it was: magic.

“Amazing, Dean, so amazing—” Cas repeated against his lips, kissing him. Even when he was gasping for air, Dean’s name never left his tongue through the course of his orgasm.

Dean would bend over backwards to give this man anything he wanted—and if it was as easy as his kiss? Hell yes—he was there! He’d _always_ be here…

He could see the strain, the way Cas’ arms were quivering as he held himself up. Truthfully, Dean wouldn’t have a problem if Cas collapsed on top of him and passed right out. Sure, going soft in his ass may defeat the purpose of a condom, but Dean knew—from his side, at least—he was clean. Maybe they’d chat about that in the future…the whole passing out situation (mostly, the concept of being able to hold Cas through the night) was totally a great idea.

Cas found his (fifth?) wind and collected himself, falling back onto his haunches. He tied off the condom and rolled to the other side of the bed where the trash was conveniently placed, then rebounded back over. He reached into the nightstand once more, and pulled out some wet wipes with a winning grin.

Dean…saw a whole different side of Cas. One who was doting, who was peppering kisses over his neck and chest while he cleaned them up. It was crazy, but Dean tried his very best to show appreciation in every way he could.

Including his observation, “Always prepared for anything. I tell ya, if the Apocalypse hits, it’s gonna be you, me and the cockroaches. Heh, that’s somethin’ I love about you,” and immediately, after it left his mouth, he thanked fuck he was already draped across the mattress—or else he would’ve frozen, because—

No matter how small, there should be no _ love-anything _ mentioned, no, not in any way, not this quick! What was he thinking?! Obviously, he _wasn't_—but Cas...didn’t miss a beat.

“Of course. I credit two things: an unpredictable life, and keeping hope alive.” He relaxed back and pulled Dean up against his chest. “And I’m more optimistic than I was yesterday.”

Okay—this was all good, Dean hadn’t fucked shit up. Not yet!  
  
Even better, he was ridiculously comfortable. He gave himself a free pass to savor the feeling with Cas.  
  
Shit...even with the espresso, he was exhausted! Cas had completely and utterly wiped him out. He was worried if he returned to his post—

Okay, the fact of the matter was: Dean didn’t know if his legs even worked.

From here, he was still in a good position to protect Cas, right? One entry and exit point. He was posted closest to the door, his gun well within reach and—

Cas‘ curiosity asking, “Are you quiet because you’re remorseful, or—” needed to be stopped right away.

“No, Cas—_hell no!_ That was awesome, trust me: you’ll give me shit if I'd _try _ to explain how awesome. I’m sorry, I dove into bodyguard mode ‘cause…” Did he want to say it? Yeah, okay—Cas said truth was best route, anyway, hadn't he? “I realized just how freakin’ fantastically you plowed my ass and I’m officially useless. I’ll settle on shooting anyone who comes through the door—I don’t have the fight in me.” Dean realized with mild horror, “_Motherfuck_, I hope housekeeping knocks...”

“Oh…” Mischief filled his once concerned expression, Dean already knew he was in for it. “In that case, allow us to switch sides? I’m a much better aim and more efficient, I promise—”

“You know what? We’re gonna have a hot date. Out on a shooting range. Winner gets a blowjob,” Dean sharpened a glare in Cas’ direction.

Eagerly agreeing, Cas nodded, “That’s amenable. I look forward to it,” and kissed Dean’s forehead.

Well, this was pillow-talk-time and Cas _was_ being cute, even when threatening first-degree murder…Dean needed to be that brave guy Cas saw him as and ask the question.

“What are we now?” While Dean would normally leave those words hanging, the niggling voice screaming in his head ’_be brave!’ _ won out and he rushed, “Because you were hoping for compatibility and seeing if it was worth it to take the next step and I want to. You know. Venture into the unknown.”

It was word vomit. It had also been spat out so quickly that Cas had to pause and sort through all his crap. And the silence Dean brought upon himself? It scared the living shit out of him! Seconds felt like years, and his heart shouldn’t be pulling this BS _already—_it was too soon!

“Absolutely.” There was no _real_ hesitation. It was all made up in Dean’s head. “I want nothing more. I think we’ll have to hash out some logistics but I want you by my side: because you want to be with me—not because you’re being paid. Of course, you’ll still be paid, I’m only referring—”

“I get it, sweetheart.” Dean was beaming, he was over the friggin moon. “We’ll talk business tomorrow. So long as no hitmen get lucky and catch us with our pants _ literally down _tonight.”

Cas heaved out the groaned, “Would it make you feel better if we took shifts?”

The only thing Dean could do was blink—he heard Cas right, hadn’t he? Testing the waters, he asked, “Are we still incapacitating?”

“Shot to the leg?” he offered in return, since they were (apparently) bartering now—

Dean poked Cas in the chest, ordering, “No freakin' way, that gives you an excuse to nail a femoral artery! No one’s bleeding out, I’m _ not _ stressing over another body! Not when I‘ve finally got you as my boyfriend.”

“Aw.” Cas was clearly happy, no matter how patronizing he sounded, it was halfhearted—his hand carding through Dean’s hair spoke volumes when he concluded, “Fine. Below the knee. I’ll take first shift.”

Dean wasn’t about to argue, he’d been fucked through the mattress and all the odd hours were catching up with him. “Thanks, just...wake me up when you get tired, ‘kay?”

“One more good night kiss?” Cas ducked down right as Dean was leaning up, eager to meet the request.

He milked it for all he could get, dizzy with a heady buzz warming his blood when he happily closed his eyes. “Huh…I _ was _ pretty brave tonight…” Dean thought aloud, while he was dozing off. “Onward, to the...unknown…”

If he’d held out for another second, he wouldn’t have missed out on the fond and contented, “Your bravery is something I love about you.” 


	5. Chapter Four

One of the few times Dean could say he felt like the man who’d gotten the job, who was the bodyguard fitting the prerequisites on the contract, was when Cas was working.  
  
...Wild, right? That Cas was more than a full-time pain in the ass and, you know, worked?  
  
Dean could roll his shoulders back, stand tall, strike a pose in front of a door like the stereotypes in the movies, because Cas got into his zone. The rest of the world vanished, he’d teleport someplace else, and it happened when he immersed himself in a project. Cas wasn’t distracting Dean (for the first time, ever) and in turn, Dean found...he couldn’t distract Cas.  
  
Like, he was surrounded by an invisible force-field, it was wild.  
  
He knew as much because he’d tested the boundaries and found out that Cas’ ‘zone’ was next-level shit. So sometimes for the hell of it, Dean would flip on his aviators, flex his pecs or wiggle his butt if only to see if he could get a rise out of him. Wonder if that day would be The Day.  
  
That proved just how ‘focused,’ how hard Cas was working.  
  
If he wasn’t calling Dean’s suit cheap or his ass any number of lewd remarks?  
  
He was getting shit done.  
  
Dean had no idea the man was even capable of his own projects. It turned out he was wrong—Cas wasn’t a trust fund baby (even when he acted like it) he was a damn successful businessman, human rights advocate, and ‘social justice warrior’ in his own right. Slowly but surely, it became obvious why he and Sam knew each other.  
  
Despite small personality quirks, they were ambitious brainiacs who overworked themselves and poured their livelihood into their causes. The only difference was that Cas played as hard as he worked.  
  
And if Dean hadn’t been so damn distracted and caught up in the _ playing _ part, he would have seen the writing on the walls.  
  
Except, Dean was way too caught up in it—   
  
How could he not?  
  
Instead of a gut-punch from thin air, he welcomed the mix of chills and sizzling heat when Cas swung him around and pushed him up against a wall for a rough and tumble make-out session. Tackles that resulted in light rug burn (instead of bloody and bruised knees) from an impromptu quickie, when groping hands turned into something much more fiery on the living room floor and made his heart fucking soar.  
  
Not to mention being able to guard Cas with a tender touch underneath the spray of a shower instead of an awkward boner and painful blue balls outside the bathroom while the guy casually tossed out invites...   
  
Yeah, Dean, his goofy smile and his giddy schoolgirl crush was living the dream!  
  
He should have known there would be consequences.  
  
The enemy wasn’t just outside the walls, hell, it never had been. Cas was his own worst enemy.  
  
Dean should have seen it coming, but the guy was crafty! He was slippery as a fuckin’ snake!  
  
All the ‘work’ he’d been doing...after a long session, Cas would stretch out, take a breather, a break—and Dean would be the best way to help him decompress. He’d always chat about his latest project. Laugh about a meeting planned with a friend who was going to help fund a campaign he was working on with another dude that blah-blah-Dean-zoned-out and started zoning in on Cas’ lips around that time.  
  
Before, he’d cared a bit more. Mostly because he’d have to plan their travel around these meetings. He’d need to vet the guys to make sure they, their teams and staff were legit and there weren’t any hitchhikers that could have vendettas.  
  
It didn’t take too long to realize the majority of the guys after his beau weren’t the high-crime, secret operative type. They couldn’t infiltrate a goddamn Walmart.  
  
And that’s where Dean’s habit of relaxing around Cas’ professional agenda in exchange for his personal attention took over.  
  
Worst mistake he’d ever made was forgetting the enemy he tumbled into bed with.  
  
When Cas stopped making his announcements about ‘what project’ after he closed a document—Dean should’ve been curious.  
  
When they made travel arrangements and Cas actually allowed him to drive a two-hundred mile distance instead of insisting on making Dean cringe with a flight, Dean should have known Cas wasn’t finally being kind.  
  
When they were in the back of a limo and Dean thought he’d caught a familiar name—listening to Cas mumble as he flipped through cue cards—he should have pressed him on the details, rather than allowing one of those holy-fuck-I-could-cum-in-my-pants kind of kisses to shut him up and leave him dazed until they arrived at their destination.  
  
It wasn’t until Dean was already there—planted just outside of the camera's view and away from the public’s eye—that he realized the new stations weren’t asking for Castiel’s take on an event that he was attending.  
  
Castiel had called them all there for his own event.  
  
As he addressed the media, Dean was horrified when Cas—charismatic and genuine as could be, for the people—began to launch into, “In our current political environment, now more than ever, it needs to be said that it’s our differences and the things that make us unique that make us strong. After some reflection, I realized that I’m one of the lucky few to have found that strength, and it would be wrong if I kept my story quiet when I know others out there may find their voice listening to mine—”  
  
Oh...no, no, no—!  
  
Dean’s entire body went ram-rod straight as Castiel proceeded to address every goddamn network in existence, putting on that goddamn gorgeous, yes, confident and almost cocky expression in a bold-faced act of retaliation, fucking laughing, like it was a casual, inside joke between him and the reporters, “Unfortunately, our family has undergone some trying times lately, I know anyone whose heard the Krushnic name knows my Uncle, right?” and they laughed along with the asshat, when he said, “Yes, I’m the only other Krushnic to have the guts to be related to him, and rightly so!”  
  
“He’s a family man, a kind man, and he also loves flashy cars. Oh, and some ideas he’d had have also rubbed some degenerates the wrong way. I’ll use the bare bones and say they’ve called him ‘very, very liberal and progressive,’ but, in truth: he’s usually the designated driver when his buddy’s go play cards and he still doesn’t have a smart phone—I fail to see the correlation, but I also don’t negotiate with terrorists,” Cas easily quipped, and patted the podium while the press ate it up. “Wow, it must be awful—wouldn’t it? To look at a guy like my uncle and think...he’s the future? We must turn back time? Could you hate yourself less?”  
  
Dear. Lord.  
  
Cas was baiting them. Laughing right in their faces.  
  
It was all downhill from there—when he looked right into the camera and said, “I’m worried they all might spontaneously combust—my objective here today is to finally set the record straight. I love my Uncle and I’m proud of him. But my name is Castiel Krushnic and I’m an American citizen. I’ve been profoundly affected where I live, but my family’s work unfolds in a place I don’t call home. I’m always asked to comment on politics in a country where I don’t vote, where I can’t speak for the people, nor should I.”  
  
“Now, I’d like to set myself apart.” Cas smiled broadly, announcing, “And if anyone would like to target me for something, I better start doing some damage in the US, shouldn’t I?”  
  
“Cas, what are you—” Dean coughed under his breath, he was going to have a fucking _stroke_ if—   
  
The little shit glanced back just long enough to wink at him and give him the ‘I’m okay’ nod, like he knew what he was doing, but hell no! He didn’t know what he was doing! Was he on drugs?! What the—!?  
  
“I want to thank you for joining me this afternoon. Allow me, Castiel Krushnic, to tell you who _ I am_. Let me tell you about the work that I’ve been doing, the work that I’m hoping to accomplish, and how much I loathe domestic terrorism as a national threat!”  
  
An applause erupted, along with the blinding flash of photography in that picture-perfect moment and—   
  
Dean may as well have shit himself.  
  
It was a speech littered with subtleties and not-so-subtle jabs that would cut right to the heart of the neo-Nazis and rile them up. Jesusfuck—he just simultaneously launched a million #mancrushmondays and twice that in just...men waiting to crush him the second he hit the road!   
  
Once the mainstream media thanked him and it began to break up (slowly, but surely) the press conference had felt like hours, they couldn’t get enough!—smaller, independent reporters stuck around to see if Castiel would give them the time of day for a little morsel more!  
  
It was a lost cause, Dean knew he was fucked: the damage was done—Cas had thrown the gauntlet—and he’d done his work ahead of time. Dean knew it, he could see his antenna’s pick up when he spotted a logo on a pair of men's shirts and it struck Dean upside the head: they represented a little known white-militia-type publication.  
  
Cas zoomed in like a shark, using this guy who was armed with a recording app to pick up every word—the cadence in his tone switched into taunts and threats—the question being: did Cas know who to look out for? Or did the guy know to look out for Cas’ invite?  
  
God, Dean’s trigger finger had never itched as much as it had as soon as his stupid-ass boyfriend started mingling. As Cas did nothing but add more fuel to the fire (and, okay, he was talking about his advocacy work and that was legit, but c’mon! Dean was hyper-sensitive about the whole assassin aspect! Especially out in public!) he wanted them to call it good!  
  
If he had it his way, he would’ve scooped Cas up, dumped him over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, and sprinted back to the limo.  
  
Instead, Dean was left with the tangy taste of blood from biting his lip. No way he’d make Cas look bad in public. If there weren’t any underlying factors, this would’ve been a win: awesome publicity, a victory for him, his brand, hell, his pockets, and the project he was working to promote.   
  
…It wasn’t that simple. It was the opposite, and Cas would finish up when Cas wanted.  
  
When he finally said goodbye to an adoring audience, Dean slammed the door behind them, ordered the chauffeur, “Drive!” and didn’t bother to hide his panicked, “What the fuck are you doing?! What were you thinking?! Why the fuck would you—!”  
  
A single finger on his lips and curious, easy eyes promptly shut him up. “I have no leader to communicate with. No elected representative, president nor king of the Alt-Right.”  
  
Unable to speak, Cas’ finger not having budged, all Dean could offer was wild bewilderment.

“In case they were unaware before, I needed them to understand: they’ll never win. I thought I made my point. Here—” Cas released him and fished his phone from his suit pocket, Dean waited in a gobsmacked silence. The device was plopped in his hand. “If you had trouble understanding it the first time, the news outlets are running the headline and reporting on the press conference. You may watch it again if you must, but I’m surprised at your confusion. Did you forget your coffee—”  
  
“JesusfuckingChrist, I heard every word! I’m not asking ‘bout the content, I’m asking if you’ve lost your goddamn mind!” he blurted out, striking the phone to the floor of the limo. “If you thought of this bullshit as an ‘inconvenience,’ they’re gonna send in armed troops, twenty-four seven! Bounty hunters, friggin dirty cops, you’ll never get a second to—”  
  
“Dean.” Cas’ voice was stern, placing a hand on his shoulder—who knew if it was for comfort, reassurance—that they were in this together, or what. “I’m paying you from a reason. How about you suck it up and earn your keep.”  
  
“...oh, you _ motherfucker…_”

\-----------------------------  
  
Dean had fully anticipated the first wave.  
  
After all, when it came to hate crimes—all they needed was the spark to guide them to their warpath and Cas’ speech was downright enticing.  
  
Dean just hadn’t expected a full-on week of daily drop-ins!  
  
Jesus, he’d heard of high-cardio workout plans, but this was ridiculous! Each one of those fuckers posting their crossfit journeys needed to come on over and spend a day—one, single day—in his shoes. They’d look at those tractor tires differently….  
  
Sometimes he’d get around to playing fast and loose with a shit-sure assassin. One who thought he could get away with a double-dirty pot shot. Or, maybe, a guy who Dean could subdue when Cas was napping. The longer the guy was conscious, the longer his life was in danger (ironic, isn't it?) since Cas was a constant presence and a constant threat.  
  
But, hell...if Dean _ could—_hereallywantedto—he had a few questions.  
  
Was there really, like, a newsletter? Had they forged their bonds in the dark recesses of 8chan—or was that some BS for the public? Dean had no idea, that kind of nasty corner of the dark web hadn’t been on his desk when he was with the CIA, so he knew nothing.  
  
Whether a spin-off from Charlottesville, an off-the-grid Jonestown set-up, or what, there had to be a uniting force. An information network. A feed to pump information through the channels.  
  
He and Sam had spitballed after Dean’s private meltdown post-news conference, only to realize that—yeah, both of them had been doing some independent digging. Yet, any easy lead that surfaced was quick to fizzle, and the ones that could potentially yield results required a dive down the rabbithole with no guarantee—neither Winchester had the time to devote.  
  
Of course, Dean would love to know the method behind the madness...but did it matter?  
  
Even if he found the nucleus, the major players—this was bigger than him and spread too far. No one hit the road to take out Hitler. They didn’t Google Osama bin Laden’s GPS, hell, when Dean was deployed, he was only one soldier—he needed his brothers to aide in battle, the strength of the country for support.  
  
The reason he thought he could take on the world alone was because of who he was fighting for. It was because of Cas. Dean wouldn’t let a goddamn thing happen to him—even if the moron had drawn the curtains, pushed open the doors and downloaded some kind of looped Nazi mating call from iTunes.  
  
Ever since Cas played their song to the mainstream media and their home-hitting publications, Dean waited on pins and needles.  
  
He was finicky and restless. Each time he found his station, Dean would visualize a tacky, sticky glue gobbling onto either the soles of his shoes or the chair he planted his ass—God, it was hard to stay still. He had to count his breaths, hold himself together —motionless—he wasn’t about to fuck up due to his own distracted pacing.  
  
He hadn’t been tested under this pressure in years: Dean was honed in to sound but he needed to be discerning. Each creak or echo was a temptation away from jumping right to the nuclear option (either jolting through the roof or hitting the deck) dammit, he needed to _ think _ and not _ feel_!  
  
Woah, wait…  
  
Did he just tell himself he needed to use his head instead of…?  
  
Fan-fuckin ‘-tastic! Another thing to add to his laundry list of ‘Shit Dean Fucked Up.’ It was growing and the silence, the stifling build-up waiting in what he knew as the calm before the storm, worked against him.  
  
He didn’t dare to fill the empty air with distractions. Dean wouldn’t give into the niggling questions he wanted to mull over—he couldn’t risk a grand epiphany or a painful revelation. Nada.  
  
Of course...there was always _ someone _ who hijacked Dean’s carefully-constructed plans.  
  
Four days of Cas’ harassment, teasing and toiling passed—Dean refused to give in.  
  
Yes. He hated himself for saying no. He fucking hated Cas’ guts with the way his own carefully-framed encounters would build.  
  
After getting the hell out of town, they woke up hundreds of miles away—Dean made sure of that, he wanted them to evaporate out of thin air.  
  
What began as Cas’ daytime hovering, observing, and taking in the facts, turned into circling and appraising at dusk. He returned to find Dean around midnight, this time armed with coaxing hands that massaged his shoulders from behind and the words, “I believe I’ve found a much, much better location suited to your needs than this rickety couch…”  
  
Oh, the delicious intent that flecked along his rumbling, crooned words was nearly all it took. With Cas’ lips ghosting down the length of his neck, Dean’s resolve was melting away at record speeds. After his tongue darted out, a hot and wet sensation (he _ couldn’t not _ lean into,) traced Dean’s ear, Cas whispered, “I have a surprise for you, now that you’re thinking rationally. Oh, Dean—you’ll enjoy—”  
  
Castiel abruptly stopped. Because, while Dean had allowed himself to be lured to his feet—   
  
His softening exterior, the melted and hell-yes, I’ll-come-hither vibes had expired.  
  
Mechanically, with odd, robotic motions and deliberate stomps, Dean separated himself from Cas—walked to the other corner seat of the sectional and flopped down. The smile on his face was slapped on, awkward, on the inside he was biting his tongue.  
  
“You know what. I really am fond of this couch, it’s—” He gave the arm a hearty pat, scooting around and—dearlordhelphim—the lurching noise and audible crack of wood made it sound like it could disintegrate underneath him at any moment. “I-it’s...homey…”  
  
“I’d like bull booze your school district or call CPS if you confuse ‘homey’ with ‘derelict’.” Castiel crossed his arms and when they locked eyes, Cas’ narrowed—figuring out his next move. He stalked over until he was looming over Dean, weighing his options: “Well...instead of crumbling with age, it may be kinder to demolish it—since you’re quite fond—”  
  
Oh-ho—Dean finally moved fast enough!  
  
In the split-second of innuendo: Cas and a shark-like grin, his wandering eyes, his lewd pitch, the way he played with words, but Dean was too fast—he friggin knew Cas well enough (finally!) to know—  
  
Those wrists in Dean’s grasp—the ones bare inches away from gaining leverage, from pinning him down and into the couch—didn’t make contact and it kinda surprised them _ both_.  
  
“I don’t understand.” Cas retracted, standing up and asking in confusion, “If it’s important to you, when we depart I’ll contact the AirBnB owner and make a purchase offer. I must insist on upgrades! It’s not structurally sound, and—”  
  
“The fuck—? Cas!” His words were exploding before he could think. “I’m not smitten with this piece’a junk —_Jesus—_you think—?!”  
  
“Then what’s wrong with you?” The squint and the way he sunk into his hip....Cas honestly had no friggin clue! That did nothing to prepare Dean for his brash, assertive thinking-aloud: “You start to relocate and change your mind. I accommodate you: regardless of how misshapen, run-down and probably-disease infested your preference, and now, you change your mind _again_?”  
  
The manpower Cas was putting behind his reasoning was...nuts. Crazy, for something so fucking obvious, watching the inner turmoil bubble over made Dean’s mouth go slack.  
  
Pensive, with a thumb on his chin, Cas’ gaze turned piercing and he wasn’t prepared.  
  
“If this isn’t about the furniture or the location: are you playing hard to get?” All of a sudden, it was like This Reason made sense, Cas sighed and calmly explained to a gobsmacked Dean, “That’s unnecessary, Dean, the chase it’s pointless when I already have you. Perhaps we could try a similar idea in the future, create a challenge—there’s no thrill in the hunt when you’re already hard, within grasp, and—”  
  
“Woah, woah, woah!” A burst of—freakin’ _ something—_lit up the room from nowhere, Dean shooting to his feet, his face flaming scarlet and (yeah, how he got away with it, he’ll never know) pushing Cas backward a step, away from his bubble. “Are you playing dumb on purpose? Or are you trying to rile me up!?”  
  
Dammit, Dean thought he’d made headway.  
  
But the half-quirked grin on Cas’ face didn’t give him any answers. It led to more questions.  
  
Both seemed to hold their ground, biding time and just as quickly as things escalated—  
  
Cas moved with stealth and landed a full, thorough kiss on Dean’s lips.  
  
By the time Dean’s eyes were opening, Cas was nothing more than a shadow, but his words held a presence in the room long after he left: “Maybe tomorrow will be the day rationality wins. Goodnight, Dean.”  
  
_ The little shit… _  
  
Cas never really let up.  
  
He was a kid having a blast at the beach, building layer upon layer to this sandcastle and—  
  
Dean was being crushed under the weight. Nope, it wasn’t a pretty metaphors. Not when his gorgeous, sexy tease of a boyfriend was resorting back to his old tactics: the same ones that had driven Dean to the brink of madness.  
  
The only thing worse was this time around, he didn’t have to fantasize. He already knew. And knowing what he _ could _ have, what he was turning down, dear lord...it _gutted_ him!  
  
It must be nice for Cas, not having a care in the world. Following every whim, never needing to edit himself or think twice about giving into an impulse. Hell, the only time he thought twice was to make it two times _ more _ impulsive!  
  
Ever since the conference and subsequent sexual tension, Cas flaunted his freedom. Parading around half-naked and carefree. Using Dean like the backboard of a basketball hoop when boxers were too much to bother with. —he was gonna die.  
  
But the more Cas amped him up, the longer they went with this unresolved frenetic energy brewing between them—holy shit—was he gonna fuck some white terrorists up.  
  
Dean knew it was coming, he had been lying in wait for the day.  
  
Whatever Aryan Nation Hotline gave them the details (or, for all Dean knew they hijacked the Bath Signal and slapped on a swastika) he and Cas yearned for days of rest. But it was the farthest thing from a reprieve.  
  
Nah, it was four days to fester. To look over their shoulders. To feel the stirring anxiety of hunger between them build, but Dean refused to let his guard down and answer it which made Cas even more frustrating—!  
  
Come Monday, Dean was ready, waiting and hankering for an outlet. Someplace, friggin _anywhere_, to channel the frazzled anxiety consuming in his body, making him unable to sleep or even eat, he felt like a meerkat on crack—and when it finally came: pure bliss.  
  
It sucked for this dude, out of every pawn tossed in the ring, his number came up lucky. And by lucky, Dean meant today the tables had turned: he’d been waiting to lay the beatdown and his prey finally slithered in.  
  
That poor motherfucker never knew what hit him.  
  
When Dean jumped to the offensive with an all-out battle cry, he was met with surprise and then fear.  
  
While it was four days descending into madness that launched his furious charge, giving Dean vindication upon feeling the snapped cartilage of a broken nose and the crunch of teeth from a cheapshot to the jaw, he had another weapon in his arsenal.  
  
These guys usually came with some bumps and bruises (Dean could relate) and he’d double the amount before he was through.  
  
Not today.  
  
The idiots had probably forgetting when they were regrouping post-press conference, that they hadn’t sent out any stoogies in over two weeks. This was the longest Dean had gone without waiting for a gash or a rib to heal, even now—he was coming out on top.  
  
An itch inside him needed to triple the sight of black and blue, even if it meant busting his knuckles to do it, the deal was a steal.  
  
The suckerpunch took him down and, in no time, Dean had pinned him with his knees. The barest haze of red started to set in, imagining every last one of the men who’d been hunting them on this guy’s face and striking every smug look off their mugs— “Dean—”  
  
Cas’ voice was enough to make him go on alert, wondering if there was another. But when his focus shift, he realized his last impact was landed on a bobbing head with swollen-over eyes and a mouth full of blood. Aw, fuck.  
  
Sighing, Dean checked the guy for a pulse (he assumed he didn’t go that ape-shit, but you could never be too sure) and rolled him on his side to ensure he didn’t, like, choke on any blood.  
  
“We’ll need to tape some identification to his forehead,” Cas decided and smiled down at Dean. “Very nice work. He’s nearly unrecognizable.”  
  
“How is that ‘nice work?’” Dean shook off his sore hand and watched Cas approach.  
  
“If he ends up dead instead of deliverable, you’ve already done half the job for me.” It was flippant, Cas circled the man and crouched down to examine his hunched, fetal positioning. “Hm. Hopefully he’s hemorrhaging internally. Time with tell.”  
  
Why did Dean even ask?  
  
When Cas popped back up, he grabbed Dean’s hand and hauled him along. “Now that you’ve gotten that out of your system, will you be less miserable company?” He never stopped walking, in fact, he gave Dean freakin’ whiplash as he marched them down the hallway towards the bedroom. “You’ve expended your angst, you have no reason to be childish. We _will_ spend time together. Whether it’s watching TV or fucking is up to you.”  
  
“Wow, Boss, that’s a tall order!” Oops. Dean shouldn't have been a sarcastic dick.  
  
Although, when Cas narrowed his eyes into a dangerous glower, deciding, “You’re right, I _ am _ in charge. You _ don’t _ have a say, do you?” maybe Dean should carry on being a brat all day, every day.  
  
Damn, was punishment sweet.  
  
\-------------------------------------

Tuesday came and went a whole lot like Monday. Except this time around, Dean was more careful handling the merchandise.  
  
Truth be told, he and Cas had a lot of lost time to make up for, and they were pretty much betting on pained moans from the living room to act as their alarm. Knowing his eyes were swollen shut, he wouldn’t get further than knocking into the closest wall or crawling around on the floor made them feel safe enough to enjoy themselves.  
  
Until, you know, he didn’t wake up.  
  
In the middle of the night, worried the guy has slipped into a goddamn coma, Dean jumped from bed to dump a bucket of ice-water on the guys face.  
  
When he jolted awake, Dean felt a wave of relief and smacked him again to knock him out.  
  
The early-morning drop-off was followed by breakfast, errands and soon, an attempted lunch-time ambush when they pulled into the garage.  
  
A close-quarters, awkward waltz of skirmish and a few dents in the car later, Dean hadn't even realized Cas had left until a _boom_ on the hood made Dean rear back in alarm—the hollow noise echoing and amplified against the walls.  
  
“We’re already here,” Cas explained, tearing past the zipper and using the car hood as a make-shift workbench, setting all their usual tools in a clean line. “Drag him over here.”  
  
Of course, Cas wasn’t gonna help with one of their biggest lugs to date! Mentally preparing himself, Dean sucked in a breath before bending over and clamping onto the guy’s ankles. He would’ve preferred dragging him the other way around, but this was how he landed, there was no goddamn space, Dean he worked with what he had.  
  
“What’s taking you so long?” After ripping his first length of tape from the roll, Cas turned toward Dean and commented, “You lost his shoe.”  
  
“I didn’t lose it, it fell off over there! Jesus! I kinda have my hands full! He’s—”  
  
“You’re about to lose his other shoe.”  
  
“He has fuckin’ cankles, Cas! _ Cankles_! And the shoes aren’t lost if you know their locations!” As annoyed as he was with his boyfriend, that little burst gave him what he needed to clear the corner and drop the guy right at Cas’ feet. “There! Take him! I’ll go play Cinderella!”  
  
He stopped in place, realizing he’d already fucked up and turned around to amend, “I know what you’re thinking: Cinderella _ lost _ the shoe, she wasn’t _ looking _ for the shoe, I get it! I get it—!”  
  
“No. I wasn’t thinking that at all.” His voice was honest and his voice quizzical. “After we finish, I’ll be hungry. Since we can’t use the same police precinct, what I _was thinking_ was in regards to a quaint, family-owned Italian restaurant a few counties over.”  
  
“Oh.” Slowly, Dean nodded.  
  
On a normal day, Cas’ indifference and lack of human emotion didn’t necessarily bother him anymore, the conversation jumps were jarring.  
  
“Yeah. That sounds good. How’s their pizza?”  
  
After Cas finished tying off his intricate rope work, Cas reported, “Some of the best I’ve ever tasted.”  
  
“Oh, fuck yes! I'm in.”  
  
If food was involved, Cas knew exactly what would trigger a shift in mood: burgers, pizza, or beer and sex, Dean was a man of simple pleasures at the end of the day.  
  
Those were also an excellent motivational tool to get them working together fast and efficiently. This was one of the top three fastest take-downs and deliveries to date. When they worked as a team, they were pretty unstoppable—getting to that teamwork part was usually the major problem.  
  
\----------------------------  
  
Wednesday was the day their teamwork, once again, fell apart.  
  
It was over a stupid comment and stupid rebuttal because of stupid venting.   
  
….But Cas totally started it.  
  
The way it worked out made time blend together, even if the attacks hadn’t been launched in rapid succession, the way they’d addressed the aftermath and the brand-new perspective (three days in a row instead of three a month, shrunk their world) felt like it was all Alt-Right, All the Time.  
  
Especially, when the third came just before dawn on Wednesday.  
  
Dean always slept with one eye open, knowing the _moment_ one of his personal security add-ons was tripped—he was ready, but Cas had been dead to the world.  
  
Until he heard Dean’s, “What the fuck is wrong with you people?!” and clunking in the adjacent room.  
  
And Dean would’ve never known Cas was awake in the first place. When he staggered back in, Cas was just where he left him: tucked under the sheets and sound asleep.  
  
If it hadn’t been for the fact Cas shouted, “Can you please quiet down! Some people need their rest!” forcefully deafening _ and _ seething, that his venom caused both Dean and the Neo-Nazi to freeze in their spots. Cas' sarcastic, “Thank you!” even louder.  
  
The clumsy pause and misstep tripped them both up, but Dean shook his head and—yes, he whispered (for Cas’ sake), “Try friggin dating him,” and used the befuddlement to his advantage, needing a swift finish or else face Cas’ wrath.  
  
Still, his night was restless.  
  
When the finally got up in the morning, Dean realized_ everything in him_ was restless.  
  
He’d let Cas sleep and gone on autopilot to handle...what they always did. It was the coffee that stirred Cas from his lair, he immediately noticed breakfast, caffeine, bags packed and The Package lined up, everything in their travel fashion.  
  
Once he was two cups deep, no less, was when Dean asked, “East or South? We need to get outta here. I want to be on the road—all day—hell, all night, if we have to.”  
  
Cas squinted in return, like he hadn’t heard him properly—but Dean wasn’t repeating himself. “That’s foolish and wasteful. Let me call my pilot, we can—”  
  
“And then yer pilot is gonna call a whole bunch of people to make the flight happen. Workers in the hanger, mechanics, friggin fuel, anyone on staff, these people are everywhere! They have connections and now—bam! They’ve got you pinned down, _twice_, today! Departure and arrival. You’re served up on a platter.” Dean tried to keep his voice even, he needed to get Cas to listen to him, but some ire leaked through. “Just...it’s a merc a day while we’re dodging them. I don’t want to give them any chances to throw out more.”  
  
Even when Cas nodded, the silent on his part was weird.  
  
He quietly finished his breakfast, filled his cup once more and within the hour they were out the door.  
  
\-----------------------------  
  
Road trips centered Dean and everything was going well...until he heard a persistent thumping in the trunk.  
  
Ah, shit. They’d forgotten about their extra cargo!  
  
Dean had been so focused on winding with the windows down, the music turned up and Cas thumbing through his phone a, surprisingly calm presence—they’d skipped passed their drop-off site.  
  
So far, the drive had been so great, as they took turns picking out different exits, whether to go left or merge right, Dean had entered his Roadtrip Zen: going someplace else entirely.  
  
It was obvious they both heard the lively company that decided to wake up from his nap and join them on the interstate. Dean could feel the weight of Cas’ eyes on him while his kept flickering up to the rearview mirror.   
  
Two things (both his worse-case scenarios) played through his head: Dean would either see that trunk pop open, the guy fly out and after an unsuspecting motorist the speed bump of their life, they’d have terrorist roadkill.  
  
Or, if the guy was smart, he’d kick out the headlight and flag down help. The question was: how resourceful was he?  
  
Him and Cas never really gave them a pat-down anymore. There wasn’t a point—in fact, if they were carrying a weapon, great! Slap ‘em with a harsher charge when they were at the station!  
  
The question: whether he had access to a knife now—it was the difference between—  
  
“Dean.” With a supportive hand squeezing his thigh, Cas tried to reassure him, “it’s going to be fine.” With a few firm pats, he left his hand where it was but turned his attention back to his phone. “Well, it _ should _ be fine. He’ll be unconscious again soon—he’s hyperventilating. What a moronic way to waste air when you have less than an hour left.”  
  
“—what? No, people don’t suffocate in trunks, Cas…”  
  
Dean’s voice was nervous, why was he nervous? He knew this was a _fact_!  
  
“They certainly do in vehicles I’ve personally modified.” Cas turned to meet Dean’s now-slack-jawed and wide eyed expression. “What do you think has been around longer: the thorn in my side and a remedy in using this vehicle? Or you and your employment position?”  
  
“Why don’t you think to tell me these things?!”  
  
Again, Cas had a legitimate point, “_Why_ haven’t _you_ unloaded the human in the trunk yet? It’s nearing rush hour.”  
  
“Just google where the fuck we are, we can’t risk a traffic jam now that I know I’m driving a goddamn coffin!” Dean wanted to bash his head on the wheel, but he didn’t: he kept his eyes on the road. “You’re...just...I can’t, Cas.”  
  
“And yet, you do.”  
  
\------------------------------------  
  
Time didn’t run out, their drive-by was successful and they were on the road again. Truly? Dean didn’t want to stop.  
  
Maybe if they kept running, no one would catch them. Maybe if he made them work hard enough, they’d just give it a rest, throw in the towel and go back to their old methods. Maybe, Dean would be able to—  
  
“Oh, that’s lovely.” Cas’ voice perked up, his pleasant expression illuminated from the blue-ish hue of his phone as he read aloud, “Both Underground and Above, The Spotlight on Domestic Terrorism Reaches New Extremes.”  
  
First, his brow furrowed, because he didn’t know what Cas looked so pleased with. “Okay, that’s the story of our lives…” Dean was slow to respond, “you wanna go researching more—for what, fun?”  
  
“No, that’s the point. It _ is _ our lives. This is a story The Post did on my press conference. They had more questions and wished to do an article, so we’ve been corresponding, it was released today. The response is wonderful, it’s nice to retaliate and—”  
  
“Cas—”  
  
He quickly disclaimed, “I didn’t say anything to incriminate myself. The title is a play on words, not about our precise dealing, I can read you the messages, if you want—”  
  
“Cas!” Dean already flipped on the turn signal, slammed on the brakes and was pulled over on the side of the road. The seatbelts did little to keep them from flying forward, but Dean’s tension held him rigid and fixed, shifting into park. “Why are you doing this?”  
  
“Doing what?” He knew he was in trouble but he tried his damnedest to hold a straight face.  
  
“You are not ‘retaliating!’ You are fucking taunting them, and the reason we’re in this car—rightfuckingnow—is because you just love waving red capes at bulls! And here you are, doing it again! _They _ are the ones retaliating! They _ always have been_!” Dean wagged his finger. Once. Until A Look from Cas made him shrink back and turned his angry finger-pointing into an awkwardly waving shrunk-back fist.  
  
“You’re wrong,” Cas pursed his lips together and batted away Dean’s...whatever his flailing hand was doing. “If I did nothing wrong, how are they the ones responding? How can _I_ be the provoker and _they_—”  
  
“It’s fucked up and twisted! You didn’t start it, it started as a hate crime and it sucks.” Yeah, his heart went out, it ached for Cas because this was one of the things that turned the tables and made the world unfair. “But you’re stirring the pot and they’ve got the numbers that can—”  
  
“Be either handled by you or I.” Cas’ voice was final. “The choice is up to you.”

That was one of those statements where he made it clear: he was finished with this discussion.  
  
The thinly-veiled threat was another way to say ‘shut up, leave me alone’ with the added bonus of, ‘shouldn’t you just do your job,’ with the reminder, ‘ dude, I’ll kill all of them, so help me.’ Needless to say Dean signaled to get back onto the road and they merged onto the highway soon after.  
  
\--------------------------------------  
  
The question remained: was Wednesday morning’s errand boy the only douchebag on duty? Or were there others constantly on their tail? Was it easier to pick up their halfway point, were there leaks in the PD database, because they’d waited too long to get rid of Breaking Dawn?  
  
Or was it just because they finally decided to linger on Thursday?  
  
Until then, Dean had been so revved up with Cas he knew sleeping wasn’t in store that night, so he continued to drive. The next afternoon, exhaustion caught up with him and he begrudgingly pulled into a rest stop off the beaten path.  
  
Cas hadn’t asked many questions (if he had, Dean was already nodding off and couldn’t remember his answer) and didn’t protest.  
  
Who knew how long he was out. It could’ve been minutes, hours, Cas could’ve gone for a nice, scenic jog and Dean would have been none the wiser.  
  
He was startled awake by what felt like an earthquake and the sound of splitting ice—  
  
Only, the shockwave was Cas shaking him. The splitting sound was the first swing, cracking his window into spiderwebs, and Dean would be damned if he let another make contact! He refused to deal with shattered glass today!  
  
He was already at a disadvantage, reclined back in the seat, but he found a way to kick out the door at _precisely_ the right time to nail the guy in the nuts. While he was doubled over, Dean fought his uphill battle to get the hell out of the car and on to an even playing field.  
  
Instead of surging up and scrambling to push out of the car, he hunkered down low: holding on tight and tucking into a ball as he rolled across the pavement. The somersault gave him just enough distance and momentum to roll onto his feet and scan his surroundings.  
  
This was one of the first times they’d been targeted somewhere that risked bystanders. The _last thing_ Dean wanted to hear was a distant engine exiting the expressway and growing louder as it cruised for a bathroom break to where they'd turned the rest-stop into a battle ground! Save a surprise hiker, it looked like they were currently alone—the only thing in the lot was a POS motorcycle sporting a gaudy confederate flag.  
  
And Dean—  
  
—Didn’t have an easy win this time. He wasn’t close to losing, but this was why he fought tooth and nail to never put them in situations like this!  
  
He couldn’t lose his mindset if he never left it behind to snooze, right?  
  
By the time he mustered up his wits, he was pissed off at himself for losing them—knowing how long they’d been at this, engaging in fucking battlefield warfare across the lawn and into the woods of the rest area. The more time extended, the higher chance a civilian could became involved and—  
  
Dean bet this motherfucker hadn’t seen a real war in his life. Once they moved into different surroundings, one tactical decision, two moves later and Dean was hauling the skinhead out from the woods over his shoulder.  
  
Huh. Cas almost appeared worried (or maybe even tense) until he regained sight of him. And Dean knew it was real, because of the way he tried to play it off as nothing, quickly adjusting his footing to lean against the car, putting on his usual blase and Frankly, My Dear, I Don't Give a Damn body language.  
  
Cute.  
  
There was a stumble in Dean's step when he grunted out, “Hey, open up yer damn coffin, would you?”  
  
The door was still open, all Cas had to do was duck inside and pop the trunk.  
  
As he dumped the guy in, Dean wasn’t worried about restraining him yet. He wanted to get out of here before anyone saw them. Before the friggin radio on that motorcycle wanted a report back to base, and fuck, that motorcycle! ...should they ditch it?  
  
A better question: how long were they being followed? How many cameras could have picked them up together, only to figured out later down the line their paths diverged? Should they just leave him here, tow the bike with them, or—  
  
“This is becoming ridiculous.” Cas was, like, a breath away—slowly settling a hand on Dean’s hip. “We cannot keep this up, we need to stop and come up with a plan.”  
  
After slamming the hood, he took a second to indulge in Cas’ touch and nodded. “You know what, I think I know a place.”  
  
A familiar location. Some place with walls that he could fortify, doors he could guard, somewhere Dean could properly do his job.  
  
When something wasn’t working, you fixed it, right? While Dean couldn’t promise he was gonna fix anything with Nazis, Cas was receptive, maybe he could aim a little higher with both...


	6. Chapter Five

On Friday, after what Dean knew damn well wasn’t a fair fight—that lasted five rounds too long (he was used to roid rage, but this motherfucker had sucked a kilo of coke up his nose and chased it with Heisenberg-quality meth!)—he said a prayer.  
  
He hoped to God the echoing _ buh-bump _ of two hundred and fifty pounds of worthless meat crashing to the ground was the end of it.  
  
That the enemy’s one-a-day policy was real. That just because they’d bunkered down somewhere and their location was known, they wouldn’t flood ‘em with scouts because..._shit— _  
  
Dean sure started off the week strong. He had badass moves, the renewed gumption to kick ass and bravado aplenty.  
  
Combining the three was simple math: it guaranteed him a win.  
  
But...the victory required three equal parts and Dean had spectacularly fucked up his math.  
  
His confidence, _ ahem_, his bravado sent him off the rails and he got cocky enough to play with his food. Enjoying the punishment too much when it felt like his energy reserve was endless.  
  
The purpose that fueled his gumption was all over the place! Dammit, Dean had been excellent at locking into his target and neutralizing the threat. The skill was etched into his bones when he joined the Marines, the carvings made deeper and his focus laser-sharp by the time he’d risen with the CIA.  
  
That was, until Cas picked up a carving knife and dragged it through his programming. It felt like Dean’s code of ethics, his personal and revered book of rules governing his life were illegible through the graffiti while Cas proudly rattled a can of spray paint.  
  
Instead of find, fix, and finish—where cooler heads prevailed through practice and training—Dean had come undone.  
  
At first, his get-up-and-go was an outpouring of his frustrations with Cas and his stupid choices. Then it ping-ponged to the next extreme—Dean’s overwhelming desire to protect him. And then, Cas would piss him off—again—and bam! Instant therapy with no copay!  
  
No matter what, Cas had become his new driving force. From their bickering, pouting, teasing, make-up sex and heart-to-hearts...the cycle was doomed to repeat itself. No battlefield could’ve trained him to deal with Cas.  
  
The fact his boss’s actions ripped apart the qualities he’d been hired for kinda made him a shitty reverse-bodyguard.  
  
At the same time, Dean knew if he fessed up and admitted (even a tiny bit) about the effect Cas had on him...his stupid, beautiful smug face and his huge dumb head would inflate for a year.  
  
The only thing Dean had left—that remained pure and untainted—were his badass moves.   
  
Whether a broken leg or punctured lung, Dean would never let anyone take those away. He’d go out a friggin ninja and he’d do it with style! You know...after a quick break...the ground looked comfy.  
  
His butt strongly disagreed. Maybe he could remedy it by finding some kind of extra support—maybe a chair—where was the couch? He decided standing was too much effort when it only took a few scoots back to pop out of the hallway (where the fight finally ended) and round the corner to the ugly yellow wallpaper of the living room.  
  
Winded and doubled over, Dean didn’t have any problems allowing Cas to handle their gift-wrapping. He wasn’t able to pinpoint _ why_, but Cas’ spirits were heightened. Maybe he was worried and glad for the victory?  
  
While he hated to say it, things were touch and go for a second.  
  
Dean tossed his head back, the drywall thumping against his skull, busying himself with a self-check up.  
  
These were the first, real blows he’d taken in a while. It was only a matter of time before they got some licks in, Dean couldn’t be unstoppable forever. He hadn’t missed this.  
  
The guy wasn’t only dosed up and high as a kite: the genius brought a knife he had no clue how to use! Dean spotted amateur mistakes right away. His grip on the handle was all wrong—the guy held it like a damn pen—it was a hindrance.  
  
The hitman could’ve been an expert with a blade, but he’d studied with a different weapon. A larger weapon with a different balance.  
  
And if his plan was traveling for a sneak attack, it needed to be sheathed and compact for travel. It’s not like you could shove a fucking katana down your jeans leg, limp it out, locate a point of entry and launch into action (without a witness) unless you had tearaway pants. Dude was way too ugly to be a stripper.  
  
Dean got lucky, he was in no mood to go against a White Terrorist hijacking a culture he preached hate about.  
  
Although, the results of him sucking didn’t help either of them. ‘Learning on the job’ was twice as dangerous.  
  
It was a goddamn mess! He kept on fumbling and nicking himself with every swipe he took at Dean! An awkward dance quickly became Russian Roulette. Neither knew where the hell the pointy side of the knife would stick, they were both riddled in steel-tipped papercuts and—   
  
Dean thought he was hallucinating. Up until the fourth time he heard _ it_. He thought there was just...no way.  
  
Even then, he hadn’t a clue whether to cringe or yell “stop”—this dick’s non-existent pain threshold gobsmacked him. Dean’s ears weren’t deceived: they were indeed picking up these escalating whiny-grunt hybrids of, “_owwie—_” each time the little bitch missed and scratched himself!  
  
It was almost the most hilarious thing Dean had seen (or heard) in his life. As the whimpers grew louder, his soprano-like octave startled Dean into wondering if this was some tactic—otherwise, he would’ve begged Cas to take a video.  
  
Dean would’ve cracked up, but a few plunges hit their target.  
  
The blade did serious damage shredding his clothing. But he had yet to figure out if the sting against his skin was from a cutting edge or abrasion.  
  
All he knew was it hurt like hell and there was no way to playback the scene for answers. He was too damn tired to look for them.  
  
The surrounding wood had the corner of Dean’s mouth twitching even if he was too spent to grin.  
  
The smallest of red specks dotted every corner of the room. Every so often a speck spread out into a lighter puddle. Smeared and circled scuffs told the story of movement. Even when Dean should’ve found the amount of blood alarming, he’d been caught in the middle and knew the bleeders were superficial.   
  
Instead...it was fascinating.  
  
He’d long since abandon forensics and spatter analysis for other gigs but making sense of the story in this suite...not even the world’s most accomplished would ever believe the truth.   
  
No one would ever read the scene and conclude, _ obviously_: it was Neo-Nazi Week!   
  
It felt like fantasy. Flashback to CIA Dean, laying it out: Friday, brought them the Weeping, Ham-Handed Slasher!  
  
The file they’d put together with a profiler would indicate: Weeping Whitey (the news needs something catchy, of course) is a real go-getter and considers himself a jack of all trades! He’s always open to try new things (at the wrong time) and works hard at them until they’re accomplished! (...if he doesn’t kill himself in the process)...  
  
Soon, the dialogue would teeter on a balance beam when different sides got involved: “He also likes long walks on the beach and wearing pillow cases on his head with his bros! Hey, it’s _ just _ a pillowcase! Those holes are from moths, you’re accusing them for nothing—! Shameonyou—”  
  
If this were on the books, his crime an open case, the headlines would be gag-worthy. All because the guy was young. These were the scum whose Mom constructed displays of participation trophies over the fireplace because ‘whether they won or lost, Mommy loves them just as much.’ Whose rich Dad would hire the sleazy lawyer. Who would spin the story.  
  
“Oh, he has his whole life ahead of him!” “Golly, would you look at those butterfingers? You can’t think he possible wanted to cause damage when he hurt himself just as much? Actually, the defense attorney found _ he _ had the _ most _ injuries!” “How can you call it a hate crime if you’re white, too!”  
  
A heartbroken mother will plead to the media, tears running down her face, imploring the nation, “He didn’t want to embarrass himself in front of his frat buddies! It was just a dare—please sign our online petition and GoFundMe. You’ll remember his name in the history books, and it won’t be for this. My son has a full-ride scholarship, God blessed us from the day he was born. Mark my words, he will be the brilliant mind who finds a cure for measles! A _cure_, dammit! Clearly, vaccines and autism are indisputably—!”  
  
Well, that’s when Dean happily visualized the crowd turning into The Walking Dead and doing what they do best: mauling and feasting.  
  
Maybe his bodyguard work _ was _ meaningful. Maybe he was making a difference, funneling fugitives into the system without incidents and bypassing the media swarm—Charlie on the inside laying matters to bed, effectively _ and _ quietly.  
  
Every 911 call led to an investigation that wasted money. Every headline gave rise to real, visceral emotions: the hope that change was coming, pain that another attack happened, or more rage being stirred on the side of the demented.   
  
The outcome of a trial did the very same, only it elicited reactions that were impossibly more heightened.  
  
Maybe he and Charlie were doing God’s work. All it took was containing The Homicidal Boyfriend situation and here they were!  
  
The weird part was...Dean still didn’t know if the depravity he’d lived with in the outside world, that world he’d missed for so long, was even worth it anymore. If he had a genie who could undo it all, could he pull the trigger and go back? Maybe living upside down and ass-backwards was better.  
  
Sure, Dean never liked that Cas operated outside the laws he believed in (Dean’s tweaks had improved his boyfriend’s own vigilantism, he couldn’t complain) but now that he had an insider’s view from the day-to-day struggle of a real victim...he’d shifted from Lawful Good to Neutral Good.  
  
Heh, Cas was fuckin’ _ born _ Chaotic Neutral. Chaos was the only way he knew how to live and it, in turn, shook Dean’s foundation.  
  
Maybe that’s why he could look beyond the blood. Dean didn’t need to see a crime scene, instead, he decided to see a story unfold. He liked his new goggles and his outsider perspective.  
  
Sometimes (okay...many times) he’d wistfully imagine a life—maybe even a friggin _ day—_without neo-Nazis. A permanent vacation. Whether it was their sabbatical or the enemy didn’t matter; Dean ached for the mundane.  
  
For better or worse, he found himself getting lost in the idea more these days. He zoned out whenever time afforded, when given a chance to breathe.  
  
Dean found the pattern captivating. It lacked the carnage of a battleground and looked like paint.  
  
Accidental droplets from a casual affair.  
  
Throughout Dean’s entire life, he’d lacked every day domestic shit and ‘adultting.’ Instead of furnishing a place, having a real ‘home,’ doing dishes and crap—he was living off delivery, traveling where ordered and running _ towards _ emergencies.  
  
Hell, the only reason he saw wet paint was because of Sam’s personal victory. When his brother finally bought a house of his own, Dean was eager, friggin _ thrilled_, to help spiff her up. The were horsing around and barely half-way through the living room before dispatch dragged Dean away.  
  
Dean didn’t even have the time (or regrets) to help his little brother paint one fucking wall in the real world. Oh, the irony: how priorities changed when he wasn’t just risking himself running into an emergency, for the person he loved.  
  
It drove him crazy, made him think about paint. And Cas.  
  
No way, he’d help—Cas would insist on the color with a laugh—but as far as helping, he’d do the exact _ opposite. _  
  
Say they settled down and wanted something of their own (not just another one of ‘Cas’ places) Dean would jump on that _ so hard._ Celebrate every day that passed uneventfully, where he could finally try his hand at something domestic.  
  
If he needed help, he could call Sam—his brother had been a friggin ‘adult’ since the day he hit puberty.  
  
When he closed his eyes, shoving the pain aside, he could still see the room but all the furniture was gone—the space was nothing but hardwood and walls.  
  
Dean pictured himself laying down a huge plastic sheet and drop cloth (ahem, doing the right thing) beginning beside the open window. He’d plug in his headphones with an old-school cassette tape-deck and go to town: the breeze would funnel through the space, he wouldn’t need a break, because—   
  
Maybe, he’d always regretted ditching Sam. He’d always remember how his brother glowed that day, looking forward to the rest of his life, and maybe that’s what left a mark.  
  
So painting a damn house of his own was a girly, hush-hush item on his bucket-list. More specifically: making a home.  
  
_ Making _ one.  
  
He couldn’t see it without Cas—who else would keep life interesting?  
  
Maybe while he worked, Cas was trying to get his attention and he didn’t see the earbuds, or the cord, tangled in the old flannel.  
  
If there was one thing Cas couldn’t handle—that was met with instant retaliation—it was being dismissed or ignored. Cas sought revenge, doling out some kind of passive-aggressive instant karma by quietly stealing his shit.  
  
Who knew what Cas wanted: he may’ve grabbed the wrong materials, and Cas took everything back instead of replacing them. God knows, even in a perfect world: his boyfriend would still have ample use for freakin’ acres of plastic and duct tape.  
  
Dean knew old habits die hard: someone could’ve stole a parking spot Cas was staking out. Instead of yelling (like a normal person) he clocked the soccer mom over the head and decided to punish her for her ‘crime.’  
  
Either way, Dean would’ve been out a plastic sheet and unaware they had Karen in the basement.  
  
That’s where the drops came from: Dean content and obviously working away, without a worry in the world. Cas being Cas, never concerning himself with things like consequences. All of it: memorialized in paint.  
  
After Dean put the finishing touches on, he’d climb down the ladder and gather his tools to take outside and spray down. It was his mistake, letting the music play on, Cas could startle him in a silent room, so why wouldn’t he take advantage now?  
  
It was stupid to think Cas wouldn’t jump out of nowhere, grabbing him from behind—   
  
No matter how Dean had held on for dear life, paint was still doomed to slosh over the edges. That’s where the heavier puddles came in—not a wound. From Cas' surprise affection, wrapping around his waist, nuzzling against his neck.  
  
And soon; Dean would see that in Cas being a little shit earlier—there was nothing protecting the fucking wood floor while he'd been hard at work!   
  
Cas never beat around the bush, volunteering the information—that, yes, he took it. He needed it in order to cover his track while kidnapping someone. They’d argue about what and what not was suitable ‘vigilante justice,’ how he’d tried to discuss it with Dean but he was ‘too busy to be disturbed’ and how to handle the hostage.  
  
Dean would complain about Cas complaining about human life, and Cas would point out Dean’s tizzy, his first priority was smudged paint on a floor.   
  
And that...would bring them both back to Earth and put things in perspective.  
  
How their interactions, from the outside, seemed ridiculous. That their intensity couldn’t be handled by anyone but the other. Their squabbles, despite how passionate they felt in the moment, were destined to dissolve or vanish: they never truly held grudges over words.  
  
He and Cas navigated two different worlds and helped each other through each...the scuff marks underfoot represented them—through their process and motion—coming back together.  
  
They always returned to each other.  
  
There was no doubt in Dean’s mind once they reached a verdict, both of them would end up on that floor: covered in the same red on the walls. _ That’s _ where Dean wanted to be—in that perfect world: where paint dried as a reminder of love, not reality—where blood needed to be scrubbed away to hide evidence from the darkest source of hate.  
  
Dean wanted his world flipped upside down one more time. Maybe he’d spin out and find himself in another wild, bizarre land that took time to understand, but maybe this one would make sense….maybe in this one, people were better, kinder to their neighbor—   
  
Where he could make something with Cas. Where they could have their life. Where he could call his brother for help and the highlight of his day was fighting over a motherfucking drop cloth and Karen.  
  
Except, Dean knew the red was getting tacky, instead of staying vibrant—the color of coagulation was ugly. He was stuck in _ this world _ and it was anyone’s guess what blood on the floor belonged to who and from what and when. ...such a clusterfuck….  
  
After allowing a few moments to pass (could he mourn a memory that never happened?)—even if he wanted to sit still and play pretend forever, Dean knew he had to check his wounds. The nagging, harsh bite hadn’t vanished when the others faded away. It may’ve gotten worse...  
  
  
  
Normally, he’d give Cas the heads up he was gonna survey the damage. When he looked over, he could see Cas already well into the final stages of his bound-and-gagged tape job.  
  
Something about Cas was off—enough so that Dean’s eyes narrowed at his boyfriend—perplexed.  
  
Cas was...humming.  
  
He had a legit smile (not a wicked, sinister grin or anything batshit crazy) as he hummed a tune, yanking and tearing for the irksome roar that makes duct tape...well, duct tape.  
  
Dean wondered—had the day finally came? Had Cas snapped?  
  
Nah, he couldn’t find a reason for Cas to teeter the ledge, let alone swan-dive off.  
  
That didn’t change how crazy he looked, Dean would tread carefully… “What’s goin’ on with you? Yer cheesin’, hard.”  
  
Once Dean finally scooted around, he realized—_woah—_he’d gotten nailed with more hits than misses and forcefully swallowed down a painful grunt. Keeping up conversation was a struggle, he pushed for the words, “Never seen you so stoked about disposal—”  
  
When he finally found his center and looked up—Cas was _ right _ fuckin _ there—_Jesus!  
  
Was it a full moon? Why else was he an open book: all concerned and worried, like he cared? He’d ditched wrapping up his chores, all ‘cause Dean looked sore, or some shit? It wasn’t like he was dying, he’d been worse for wear without Cas so much as batting an eye.  
  
The unsteadiness of his gaze was a tell. Cas’ focus shifting back and forth between Dean’s eyes and his coat, the sum of his behaviour set off little alarm bells. Dude, were his guts hanging out and he was clueless?  
  
Before panic set in, Dean reached down and soon realized the dampness he felt was warm, his own wound. Except, it wasn’t bad enough to explain Cas being all...shifty and weird.  
  
“Let’s take this off. You apply pressure and I’ll grab the kit,” Cas assured him and kissed his forehead. Before he had a chance to back-track, Dean didn’t let him get that far. He lashed out, taking hold of Cas’ forearm, and his boyfriend curiously wondered, “Yes?”  
  
Oh, hell no! Batting those big blue eyes as a distraction wouldn’t work. The fact Cas was _ trying _ to disarm him meant it was bad news.  
  
“Thanks for playing nurse, and all. But I know you. What’s going on in your head? Don’t bullshit me, I’ll call it like it is.” Clearing his throat was rough.  
  
The good part: his lungs sounded decent—nothing was punctured—it was a nice start.  
  
“Well…” Cas stuck out his bottom lip and struggled—clearly, he _fully_ planned on BS. “We’ve refused to allow these moments to define us. Although it’s been trying, we’ve held our ground and continued living our life together, excelling…”  
  
Slowly nodding, he agreed, “Okay—I guess...that’s true. But I know there’s more to it than patting us on the back, babe.”  
  
“I agree.” And everything sounded great. Until Cas—glowing like the crazy fucker he was—decided, “I think everyone should pat us on the back.”  
  
Wha—?  
  
With that annoying, smooth-talking way about him, he explained, “The world deserves an update on our progress: our plight. Dean, we have an audience who feels a deep connection, a personal involvement in our journey. We're in a position where we could empower them to continue their own. Knowing that we’re able to overcome every threat and jump every hurdle in our path could be an _inspiration_. We’ve accomplished so much in such a short span of time. I believe another press conference would—”  
  
“Hey, heyhey—no. J-j-just, no...Cas, _ no_!” Suddenly, Dean wasn’t feeling any pain. Yet, his poor attempt to stand failed and he flopped right back down to the floor. Except this time, he missed the wall. Without anything to help balance his weight, he flailed helplessly before tumbling onto his back.  
  
It sure as hell didn't silence him!  
  
“Cas! That _ is _ shit! Fuck’a ‘deep connection’ and talking about ‘empowering’ people with ‘our journey’—you want to brag again!” Dean was ferocious as a fuckin’ lion (prone form and injury be damned) the claws were out. “There’s something wrong with your brain! The way it's processing, _ something’s _ misfiring, like, do you think—?!”  
  
Cas’ ecstatic glow began to dull while Dean struggled to get upright—but he wasn’t done yet!  
  
“All you’re doing is begging for more threats and higher hurdles! _Newsflash_! In case you took a nap, let me update you: today was _ not _ an easy win!” Why did Cas do these things?! His stress level exploded, tirade continuing, “Wanna do another press event? Better prepare your speech for the follow-up—you'll be announcing your ‘bodyguard’s untimely death!’ I’m sure y’all can come together, overcome a loss in your time of need—grieving me.”   
  
“Do you stay up at night brainstorming ways to give me a heart attack?” Exhausted, Dean threw his arms up and finished, “You don’t care that there’s only one of me, you see the odds different. All you can think about is revenge, your weird-ass ‘retaliation’ and luring in your prey. If you piss ‘em off enough, maybe you’ll get a turn. You’re achin’, friggin dying for a reason to go full-blown serial killer! Not on my watch...” he grumbled, huffing and puffing—   
  
Utterly winded. God, he’d gotten his ass kicked, he could barely yell at Cas like he wanted to! And this was an ‘important talking-to.’  
  
“You didn’t allow me the chance to properly explain myself before jumping to your own conclusions,” Cas stated, curtly. He walked the line between accommodating and hiding his annoyance (like he thought if he was kind, there was still a chance to get what he wanted) telling Dean, “I wasn’t prepared for this discussion. I was waiting for the correct time to bring it up, tentative about my...delivery. You didn’t allow me a decent presentation, nor was I able to gain your trust and adequately convey my plan before you rushed me.”   
  
With a huff, Cas had the balls to chide him, “Before passing judgement, I deserve the time to solidify my project,” crossing his arms. Cas deliberately pronounced, “You asked for honesty, I followed through! Besides, nothing is set in stone, and I think the least you can do is—”  
  
“Ah-hah! Your project ain’t finished until you’ve got a face full of microphones! I know enough not to give you an inch of wiggle room on this shit.” Dean even surprised himself with the power behind his words: “Executive order. No cameras, update reports or town hall meetings again!”  
  
Cas rolled his eyes (might as well have given a friggin hair-toss) and strutted off.  
  
Hopefully, to return with the intended first-aid kit, instead of deciding he was bored with Dean and grabbing one of his back-up murder kits.  
  
The icy warning of, “If you need sutures, I plan to be effective—not kind” hanging in the air didn’t make Dean feel better. If Cas wanted to inflict more pain, maybe death _ would _ be the easiest (more humane) option...the image of Cas armed with a needle was terrifying—   
  
Sonuvabitch!  
  
\--------------------------------  
  
He should’ve seen it coming from a mile away. He _really_ should’ve.  
  
When Saturday rolled around, Cas greeted Dean with a good morning kiss. After digging around the kitchen and making a racket, Dean was pleasantly surprised to find both his hands filled—one with freshly-brewed coffee, the other with Cas’ phone.  
  
His blood pressure went through the roof when he read the headline (and byline) of the fucking article.  
  
Instead of screaming at his preening, joyful boyfriend, Dean opted to choke down the coffee and burn his throat. No, he couldn’t bring himself to read it, only chuck the phone at Cas’ head like a baseball he’d pick right out of the air.  
  
….well. Dean would give it to him: there _was_ an absence of cameras, and he wasn’t giving reports or personal meetings.  
  
It was a follow-up that had been in the works since the Post published their first exclusive, Wednesday—that felt like a lifetime ago. Clearly, he’d revved Cas up last night because one—Cas told him so, and two—the publication was tentative.  
  
Until Cas dished some dirt that put it on rush order. The rest was pulled off and completed through all-night text messages and, if they ‘needed comments’ - secret voice recordings.  
  
Cas had played them and moved their schedule up, knowing exactly what made for excellent hot-off-the-press news. By extension, the publicity forced Dean’s hand, and Cas—whether he’d been manipulating that decision or not, got his way across the board.  
  
The news was, well, _ news_. Others wished to reach him for comment, it was best to smile for the cameras, and more than that, well...it demanded they come out of hiding.  
  
The world needed to see Cas. And deep down, Dean had only known it was a matter of time until they headed back into the world. Everything he did, every choice, no matter how small—he needed to promise Cas’ safety, in every way.  
  
He had niggling feeling maybe Cas missed home. Or his familiar lifestyle. Some driving urge that forced his hand into doing the one thing he could think to get some kind of ‘normal’ back - green-lighting and rush-ordering the piece did it.  
  
Castiel was back in his comfort zone, Dean would lead them the best he could and, yeah, they’d make this work. They always did. And if all else failed: they certainly weren’t limited by their lack of creativity or the rules of convention.  
  
Once the jet landed, _ jesusfuck_, retaliation from ‘Cas’ retaliation’ almost instantaneously rained down upon them.  
  
—upon _ Dean—_  
  
“Yep! I’ve changed my mind!” Dean was fuming when he spun around, looking for Cas.  
  
While his face pulsed from a suckerpunch, he was more infuriated about the impending, tacky-looking black eye. Surprisingly, this scorching pain down his bare arms was brand-spankin’-new (really—goddamn _ ninja throwing star?!_) even when the trickling blood wasn’t.   
  
And _ still—_after all his trouble, after deflecting (and subsequently taking a hit) to avoid losing more of his wardrobe, he couldn’t stop the bleeding in time. Knowing he friggin took a spinning blade to save a shirt from shredding, but his blood was staining it anyway—yeah, that was enough to set him off.  
  
“Dammit, Cas!” He stomped from balcony, through the hallway and back into the sunroom. “Everything’s clicking—the reason you didn’t argue or give me shit when I was hounding you before. Why fight me and waste your breath when I had it all wrong, huh?”  
  
Finally, he reached the last doorway and burst through. “I thought I was protecting you from yourself. All this time I’ve been so friggin dense, it couldn’t be more obvious.” Dean had built up too much momentum: instead of his desired dramatic stop in front of Cas, he kind of...slid by. He wouldn’t let that stop him! “Save yourself the trouble, the risk, all the friggin effort and man up! It would be a whole lot easier to break up with me!”  
  
“Were you struck in the head? What a foolish thought.” Castiel crossed his legs and reclined back in the lazyboy, clucking his tongue. “If I wanted you dead, I’d kill you myself.”  
  
...Well, he couldn’t argue with that.  
  
Slumping over with a sigh, Dean shook his head and wandered to find some kind of wrap or gauze, unable to deduce whether or not these needed stitches. “Wow. That’s comforting. And romantic.”  
  
Nothing from Cas’ mouth surprised him anymore. Hell, if the guy said anything gooey or sweet outside the brief moments of an afterglow—that’s when he needed to check on Hell's temperature.  
  
With his lips pursed to stop more complaints, Dean spotted an excellent opportunity to pay forward the dickishness. He kept a stone-serious face and with lightning speed grabbed the nearest, most sanitary material to stop his bleeding.  
  
It happened to be a shirt of Cas’ draped over a dining room chair. Dean dug down deep, turning all his leftover adrenaline into nimble, sharp movements, and ripped it apart.  
  
Cas’ eyes doubled and he froze in place, watching as Dean wound the torn and frayed strips of his garment to around his wounds to dress tightly them and stop the bleeding. Happily humming as he worked.  
  
In no time, they were blood-soaked and Dean determined, “I’m gonna need to sew these up,” and chucked the discarded, crimson-soaked piece of what-used-to-be Cas’ shirt at his feet. He felt victorious (that could be from the whole, lack of blood, thing) flouncing off towards the bathroom where they stored the kit. “Feel free to help. Oh, but so you know—” he paused, and made sure he had Cas’ attention.  
  
He’d gladly wait it out. Cas could glare at the pile he’d left at his feet as long as he wanted, hell, they had all day.  
  
Finally, Cas’ gaze locked onto his and he purred out, “If you think about offing me?” which captivated Cas, the sparkle in his eyes brought out Dean’s own devilish smirk— “Oh, _ sweetheart_. I’m taking you down with me.”  
  
Cas actually grinned, his previous annoyance disappeared like smoke in the air. “Now, _ that’s _ romantic.”  
  
“Figures…” Dean continued, mumbling under his breath and shaking his head on the way down the hall, “friggin figures…”  
  
\---------------------------  
  
  
Just when Dean thought Hell Week was over—that Sunday would be their day of rest and things would get back to normal—they’d done enough making their statement, right?  
  
An eye for an eye? Sunday, church, day of rest, leave room for your white Jesus—and whatnot?  
  
Just when Dean thought maybe their trade was even: Cas’ blitz attack for some kamikaze losers...he had to remember: there was something fundamentally flawed in their heads. Something demented and broken. A kind of level of ‘fucked up’ that even his boyfriend couldn’t dream of reaching.  
  
In the life of a White Supremacist, when you were losing, you didn’t cut your losses: nah, that would make too much sense! These fuckwads were bound and determined to go out in a blaze of glory before returning to their healthy rations and status quo.  
  
Now, Dean didn’t care who led them. He didn’t give a shit about their underground network, their communications and their seemingly endless supply of expendables.  
  
He wanted to know where the fuck they got _ two _ sets _ of twins! _ And _if_ there was more from where they came from, well….  
  
The best option was letting Cas at ‘em. Putting an end to their inbred bloodline.   
  
So help him, if Dean saw anything like that again? Contract or no, he was out.

\---------------------------

In the midst of all the chaos, balance was the hardest thing to find.  
  
Castiel’s loft was beginning to feel like the quiet in the storm—it was one of three properties he consistently worked out of—and ended up being the easiest to fortify. And, yeah, that’s where the catch twenty-two came in.

They had cozied in. While Dean knew the place like the back of his hand, that meant the enemy did, too. Home should’ve been a fortress, instead it racked up frequent flier miles.  
  
The press conference was a defining moment, the fastest way to slash and cut the enemy down to their cores.   
  
It figured anything in print wouldn’t get them riled up. If it wasn’t something they could click into on YouTube to hear for themselves, if a quote was typed out they wouldn’t bother reading it. Life was much easier if you didn’t have to work at it and you could dub any text Fake News.  
  
Dean should have have known Cas’ articles wouldn’t have caused a stir but he was prepared for anything. Dammit, when things calmed down he wasn’t sure if he should be happy, remain on alert preparing for the other shoe, or go ahead and smack Cas in his smug face...  
  
Well, Dean loved Cas’ smug face. He also loved being anywhere he was, that’s why settling in at the loft and feeling apart of Cas’ life felt natural. It was leagues better than the impersonal jumps from hotel to hotel, but he knew it was only a matter of time until they got an unwelcome visitor.  
  
There was always a clock, somewhere. And those numbers were counting down.  
  
Neo-Nazis knew (if they’d gotten word of his business ventures coming to a close) they had a one out of three chance which ‘home’ he was returning to.  
  
And Cas...well. He was sick and tired of replacing furniture.  
  
While Dean was supposed to be keeping a vigilant watch in the living room, allowing Cas to get some _actual work done_ while he holed up in his office…that didn’t last long.  
  
Instead, Dean wound up deposited in Cas’ lap making out like there was no tomorrow.

It wasn’t his fault. No way he’d take the blame, not when his boyfriend busted into the room and seduced him with those heated, soul-scorning kisses, and somehow—  
  
Uh, Dean just ended up straddling him—okay?  
  
Before he knew it, Cas’ cock was tenting his pants—that’s when Dean was lifted and dropped back down, Cas moving them both to feel the drag between his cheeks. The layer of dress slacks and Cas’ flannel bottoms was so goddamn thin, he could feel every delicious inch and the sweet friction as they rutted together. It was driving him crazy—like, in the way he was two seconds away from getting rid of the barriers—

“Dean—”

“Hell yeah, Cas…” He closed his mouth around his boyfriend’s pulse point—sucking down, drawing a breathless a gasp, but...the tone sounded kinda wrong.

“Dean!”

“I want you, too, sorry, I didn’t leave a mark or anything—” he rushed out the assurance, “Do you want me to bend over here, or—?”

The wind was knocked out of him in a full-body tackle.

_And it wasn't Cas—_

By a piece of shit hitman! _ That’s _ what Cas was trying to tell him! Motherfuck—!

His scenery changed in an instant.  
  
Dean lost the stunning image of his boyfriend—flushed, swollen-lipped and needy underneath him—and it was replaced by some heaving ginger with a pube-like beard, bile in his eyes and a face lined with bulging veins—!  
  
Talk about a cold shower...  
  
Dean could think of a million other ways he’d rather be pinned down on his back. Other hands he wished were wrapped around his throat. Other dicks he’d rather look at weren’t this dude’s dick-lookin’ head.  
  
Not only had he gotten the short end of the stick, he’d been distracted, he was a half-beat behind—once the oxygen was cut off to his brain, he was struggling to figure out which way was up...it was more and more difficult (the lines getting darker, fuzzier) without air!  
  
Why did they _ always _ go for the neck—!? Was it in Nazi Training Camp 101?!

The time loop continued like clockwork: burly, heavy, skinheads that had him by a hundred pounds, plus. Their tactic was throwing around their weight and hoping it landed on top of Dean—  
  
And it usually did. Like _now_.  
  
The skirmish to wriggle out from under him was familiar. And while the location wasn’t exactly a secret to the Big Guns at HQ, their rejects didn’t know the first thing about what happened when they crossed the threshold.  
  
That’s where Dean had the home-court advantage—  
  
If he could scoot out from under this friggin _ tank _...Lord...blurry was turning spotty, the spots were multiplying...

A burst of sheer power didn’t surface until he nearly toppled over into darkness, on the verge of passing out.

Neither self-preservation nor the fleeting concept of his own death had been the stimulus for his second wind.  
  
Hearing the grating _ red alert _ of the chair scraping from behind followed by stomping feet—  
  
Fuckin A! Knowing Cas was coming in hot—_that cue_ inspired and horrified Dean _ plenty_.

Oh no!_ No, no, no—_!  
  
Since the first day, their track record had been _ spotless_! All this work, all their progress would be for nothing, zip, nada if Cas stepped into the ring—  
  
No way, he wouldn’t let Cas shoot himself in the foot, not while he had a pulse—all because he’d been too damn distracted by Cas’ tongue in the middle of a good time. This douche didn’t get an ounce of credit for getting the jump on him, no Nazi assassin deserved the time of day, let alone an opportunity to break Dean’s perfect game!  
  
...and he supposed Cas’ no-kill record. His boyfriend, uh, left ditching his proclivity for casual slaughters and staying out of prison was equally as important as Dean’s pride, he supposed?

The extra rush was everything Dean needed: channeling his core to draw his knees into his chest, cranking his lower half to the left. Once his legs crunched in and landed on the ground, he used surface to rebound—knocking the guy sideways with the one-two hit of a fan kick. 

Scrambling backwards to a low crouch, Dean had eyes on Cas as much as he was readying for an attack. Simultaneously springing up and finding his footing, he ordered out, “I got this! Relax, Cas!”

“You’re mighty confident. For a moron who left the front door open.” The fucker was pleased with himself and, for the first time _ ever—_shit-talking and taunts managed to catch Dean off guard.

“—what?” He squinted in confusion, the question blurted out automatically.  
  
Without a clue if it was a bluff or not—some weird-ass new tactic handed out in the newsletter—Dean moved to the offensive and lunged. Finally, they were on even ground and he threw a furious storm of punches as revenge for the cheap shot.

After landing four and getting clocked once (and damn good, it nailed him upside the jaw) the force spun him around, he briefly lost touch with the Earth and circled a halo of stars.  
  
The sensation of falling, of dropping in the heat of battle, never failed to snap his senses back to reality. Muscle memory, renewed clarity and goddamn excellent balance blended together—landing on all fours—striking while knelt without missing a beat.  
  
The brunt was channeled into Dean’s heel and it was on a collision course for the enemy’s Achilles tendon. Damn, that direct hit felt awesome! As much as he wished to snapped it in half—he would've liked to hear the crunch, oh no, had he been spending too much time with Cas?—the painful shout was rewarding. So were his feet flying out from under him, seeing the sucker straight-up airborne.

The sack of meat, bones and shit crashed landed with an audible ‘_thud_.’ Was it Dean’s imagination, or did the hardwood tremble like an earthquake? Hopefully, there wasn't any damage to the floor—that would be new—  
  
See, Dean quickly learned through experience: the saying was true—the bigger they are, the harder they fall.  
  
The best tried-and-true way to take them out (cleanly and without the risk of sudden death) was from below.  
  
Not only that, it was an insurance policy. Most of them were so muscle-bound, their thick-ass thighs weren’t meant to navigate below four feet. Who the hell knew how they took a dump without getting stuck...

“He’s correct!” Cas announced, looking up from the app on his phone. “I failed to engage the alarm system today. I was…distracted.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?!” Dean roared, returning back up on his feet and pivoting around to stalk over to Cas. “I swear to God, if you were honest about wanting _me_ alive and you aren’t out for a thrill-kill—then _ you’re _ an asshat with a death wish!”  
  
Dean turned back and clenched his fists, trying to keep his cool, trying to focus on the task at hand. He couldn’t think about Cas right now, he needed to remember their common enemy. After all, he wouldn’t be pissed off if this bitch-ass Nazi never showed up right?  
  
Yeah. There wouldn’t be a single problem between them if it wasn’t for the POS staring back at them. A waste of tax dollars, oxygen, making them worse off, leaving a carbon footprint…  
  
Huh. Here was another first: who knew what did it, maybe it was murderous aura surrounding them, the booming, powerful energy—but the dude was wide-eyed and probably pissing his pants. Kudos to him, knowing who he was dealing with.  
  
...Yeah, Dean could redirect his frustration (momentary issues with Cas to work towards a healthy, loving relationship—or _ whatever_) on this guy. Part of the job, right?  
  
…

Fuck it.

Dean dove out like a goddamn swan in a friggin WWE move and while he was in mid-flight—_and _ in the midst of a banshee battle cry—the neo-Nazi was shrieking back in terror. Together, right up until their collision, they created a deafening harmony that pierced the Heavens and it’s raucous noise was enough to wake Hell, below.  
  
If the guy hadn’t pissed himself yet, that soon changed.

Yeah... Dean’s move was overkill.  
  
Using every ounce of his torpedoed body weight to pummel a helpless dude, center-mass, when a well-aimed upper-cut could knock his lights out while taking Dean little to no energy. But…what was the point of having all these perfectly good anger-management coping techniques (_ahem—_punching bags) if he couldn’t use them?! ...that happened to feel fan-fucking-tastic. Not that he’d say it aloud.

Unlike all previous occurrences where they knew the White Nationalist would be KO’d for a while, when a point would be made to finish whatever task had been interrupted because they refused to allow hate to interfere with their lives—a wordless exchange took place.  
  
Both he and Cas went through the motions of digging into drawers and all the right bags to collect supplies and went to work. All the maneuvering, pushing and placement of deadweight and the small indulgences they took for their own vigilante justice were refined and synchronized.  
  
As they went through the motions, the stolen glances were only outweighed by the silence.

“Are you mad at me?” Cas wondered, finally speaking up after they loaded him up in the trunk. “It was an accident, I—”

“No, it’s not that,” Dean’s voice dropped to a whisper, reaching out and taking his hands. “I get anxious. I’m not sure what’s going on in your head, well—some days I do. But sometimes, I _ still _ don’t know. I hate being in a situation where I’m second-guessing: if you reaching out to help me, or hurt them.”

“Wouldn’t it be the same thing?” Cas was genuinely asking and—ugh—Dean couldn’t fault the logic.

He was always so damn logical!

“I get worried about the…amount of force you’ll use. I guess we haven’t been in a situation where I’ve had to wonder and that just...kinda took me back.” Dean stared him down, waiting for his boyfriend to acknowledge it—waiting for it to click, something—

“Aa, yes. I understand your anxiety. What would you have me do?” He squeezed their joined hands, sounding...dare he say (Dean was hoping against hope) receptive.

Scanning their surroundings, Dean knew this wasn’t a conversation for the neighbors to overhear, and he dragged Cas back inside. They’d finish up making their delivery in a little bit, for now: this was important.

“What I want you to do is…don’t use _ deadly _ force. If you can’t switch it off, if you’re on the fence, then let me fend for myself. I’ll figure it out, I always do,” Dean decided and cut off his sentence, right then and there.

Maybe it _had_ to be that black and white?  
  
Of course, he wanted to trust Cas. And he did: when it came to them. But when lines blurred, Dean knew not to toe them and he knew damn well Cas was the type to look for loopholes. Cas and loopholes were the best fuckin’ friends.  
  
That made the difference. In any other case, in any other line of work, sure—Dean could work with someone’s rebellion, but not here. _ Never _ here.  
  
If Cas hadn’t gotten in trouble yet, and if Dean was doing his job to keep it that way—God forbid shit went sideways and Cas acted out in a moment of ‘logic.’  
  
The very last thing he wanted, (no matter how messed up—if he was around or not) was after being targeted for so long—and living under constant threat—was going straight to lock-up after finding a fix.  
  
Hell no, not on Dean’s watch.

“Listen, babe. I’m here to protect you. Even from yourself, okay? Let me do what I was hired to. I don’t know if this makes sense...” He sighed and reeled Cas in until their foreheads were pressing. “Now that we’re together my job is more important. Not less. Please, _please_ don’t put what we’ve worked for on the line.”  
  
“I understand.” Cas was earnest, he really was, “But if it’s between you and them? I can’t make you any promises in good faith.”

“Guess I should be happy about that, right?” Tilting his chin, Dean captured his boyfriend’s lips in a kiss. “Keepin’ me alive is _ almost _ as romantic as us goin’ down together.” Another kiss. “Why don’t we pick up where we left off…”

Cas was a step ahead, already setting things into motion and dragging them down into the couch, which included hauling Dean straight back into his lap.  
  
Right before their lips met, he paused and pulled out his phone, explaining, “I need to set an alarm. The body in the truck has plenty of oxygen for us to remain here indefinitely. Yet, without the windows cracked—the summer heat and the sun may bake—”

“Fuck!” Dean groaned, peeling himself off. “Like _ always_, you had me at ‘body in the trunk.’”

“He has time, he’s not in a ‘coffin’—” Cas protested with finger quotation marks, reaching out and missing Dean’s hand—settling for swatting his rear. “My calculations tell me—”

“Cas, no. It’s, like, a hundred-degrees out, just—! Just…not right now.”

“Perhaps I should have killed him. If he was dead, there’d be no worry about keeping him alive,” he complained petulantly. “I _am_ growing tired of this. And bored.”

“Hah! You’re tired? You’re _ bored_? I’ve said it before: this is your fault! Who the fuck thought it was a goddamn fabulous idea to kick ‘em in the nuts on live TV—like punting a hornets nest—but it doesn’t really matter anyway ‘cause I’ll wind up a pincushion full’a stingers and you’ll gimme a speech on how to make the swelling go down, but I didn’t sign on to be blimp of anaphylaxis, all right?! And, on _ top of it all_, you leave the godforsakenmotherfucking _ lock _ to your own front door open—a place the entire world and their fuckass white-trash half-cousin-sister can find on google maps?! _ And yer bored_, you—!”  
  
“Does venting make you feel better?” Cas asked slowly, the fact he was exercising cautious told Dean he was raving like a lunatic. “Are you...okay?”  
  
“Not even _ close—_”

“While I normally wouldn’t, I find I’m coming to regret my actions…”


	7. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning:** (the best) NSFW art is embedded in this chapter :)

It was one task to protect Cas when they were in the cab of a car. Another thing when inside an apartment or hotel with two access points.   
  
Tonight was a different story completely. Dean wasn’t going to lie about it—he was nervous as hell.

A huge event was taking place in DC, Cas had been invited to support his uncle as the last Krushnic standing—this wasn’t an offer he could refuse.  
  
Whether he wanted to or not, his publicity stunt with the press had reached further than Dean wanted and given him notoriety, it had given him a face and (much to Cas’ dismay) unintentionally, connected him back to his family.  
  
The whole point was setting himself apart. Well...that had been The Idea on the surface. Castiel was not-so-subtly taunting the enemy, mocking them and belittling them while smiling and being his too-damn-attractive-for-his-own-good self for the photos. If he wished to fade back into obscurity, the joke was on him.  
  
He was the new face of the family—the prodigal son who’d succeeded on his own, but was still needed as a representative of the family because—hey, that was good TV, right?

Yes, this had been an invitation of the same uncle who’d uprooted the family. Who laid Cas’ life on the line to begin with. The one constantly surrounded and protected by a full-fledged security detail, blissfully ignorant about the shit falling down around his nephew.  
  
Expect, friggin Cas stood up and went all in to fight against the terrorists (maybe with fatal results, but details, right…?), and made a public stand (...even if they were self-serving...) and still remained loyal to his family!  
  
Still, they were operating blind because the dust wasn’t close to settling. They had little reprieve afterwards, and Dean was freaking out—   
  
This was politics. The venue was outdoors. It was highly publicized and broadcasted. The CIA operative in his head was screaming at him: tonight was the ideal time to make a statement. To make damn sure White America was heard.  
  
If he dug into the mind of the enemy: over and over, the word ‘assassination’ rang out—clear as a bell.

Since Cas had told him about the event, a pit formed in his stomach and he’d been preoccupied. Working and planning, his mind in overdrive. And, goddammit, Dean actually pulled off the impossible.  
  
There was only one scenario where he could promise Cas’ safety. Even then, it was risky—but it gave them the best odds.  
  
For one night, and one night only, Dean had secured a team. If Cas had a problem, he could take it up with him _later_.

See—Cas wasn’t bullet-proof. There was a threat, one Dean fought, that he was ready to defend against every fucking day: that was in circumstances he could control.  
  
The enemy was a living, breathing monster that regenerated. There was no finish line in sight, no Big Boss at the end of the game to know they’d won the war. At the bare minimum, Dean was ambushed twice a month!  
  
An event of this scale would have prompted Dean to gather a team, no matter the circumstances, it had to be done.   
  
Except, an additional factor was at play...an addendum to the contract he signed, if you will: he and Cas had built something amazing together. Hench, the high-stakes freaking-the-fuck-out.

No matter how hard he tried to reassure himself with that ‘cooler heads’ BS, it didn’t change how much Dean hated walking into a situation he didn’t have full control over.

Cas was getting ready like any other day. And Dean was pacing. He’d paused to glance at his watch, constantly checking the time, and pick up where he left off.

It was enough fidgeting to bother his boyfriend, because while Dean had been guarding the door—his hands were wretched forward hard enough to give him whiplash, being slammed to a stop.   
  
It knocked him out of his head, far away from his million Abe Lincoln scenarios, and he was faced with Cas’ gorgeous baby blues instead (still pretty, vexing frustration, or not) it reminded Dean who he was fighting for.

And _damn_, was he really in his own world for so long? Seeing his man in that tux? He looked too amazing for his own good...

“Dean,” Cas’ voice was even, demanding attention, “I understand. The very last thing you wanted was my attendance at tonight’s gala. Believe me, if I could skip it—I would. Unfortunately, I don’t have a body-double and I’ll be needed for the requested press session. I’ll try to wrap things up quickly.”

He nodded, feeling guilty that he’d put his own stress on Cas, that wasn't his intention at all. So he went ahead and gave in to the urge to make it right with a lingering kiss…  
  
One turned into a few, into a frenzy, but—hey! Dean couldn’t help it! Cas was _smokin’_ tonight!

A knock on the door separated them. The sound filled Dean with relief, but Cas instantly went rigid, stepping back.  
  
Dean held back on his snickers, wondering what was flying through Cas’ head: did he think _these _ Nazis learned manners and decided to greet them before launching their all-out assault? Maybe tonight they’d check in first, ask how their day went before getting bloody on the battlefield?

Dean sweetly kissed him once more before reassuring, “It’s all right, Cas. It’s just the team.”

Still Cas lashed out, his nails digging into Dean’s arm to spin him around and demand, “What. Team.”

“You and I both know I can’t cover all our bases tonight. So I called in reinforcements. It’s my job to protect you.” He had a feeling he’d be met with resistance, Dean had prepared for this—even so, Cas’ death glare was intensely intimidating. The knocks rapped again. “They’re trustworthy. And impatient—coming!”

“Dean, I _swear_, if you—!”

It was too late, he’d already broken away from Cas’ grasp and opened the door halfway before he could be met with any resistance. Jesus, he felt like a Dad using the ’it’s for your own good’ shtick. The cold, hard truth of the matter remained: it was. Cas would see, in time.

When Dean flung the door back, he smiled broadly to the man and woman who marched in—dolled up in their matching black tux and black gown—ready to blend into the gala.

“Thanks for coming! Who knew you’d clean up so nice?” Their arrival excited Dean and he distributed hugs between them. “I owe you one.”

That’s when Cas realized one stranger was anything but—“…Sam?” he questioned, peering over and squinting.

“Hey!” Sam cheerfully greeted and crossed the room, “It’s been a while! I’m really happy to hear the arrangement is working out for you guys. Dean called me up and we talked about tonight. I’ll bet you’re leery, but the three of us can handle it, I promise.” Now close to Cas, he could look him in the eye, in that man-to-man way. “It’s a one-time protection detail, Castiel. I know you don’t want people up in your business—that’s not why we’re here. We’re insurance you get through the gala alive.”  
  
“And without any bullet holes,” the woman added with a grin.

The uneasiness in Cas shifted—whether it was in acceptance or defeat didn’t matter—he nodded slowly, “I understand,” allowing a touch of Dean’s anxiety to leave.  
  
Just a touch.  
  
Cas watched the unknown woman under a microscope, until he addressed her directly, “Your voice...I recognize it. You’re Charlie, aren’t you?”

“Wow, yeah, I am. Off-duty Detective, here.“ Her surprise only lasted a fleeting moment, before she hiked up her gown and flopped back to sit on the edge of the motel bed. “And _ you’re _ the other half of the notorious Nazi Delivery Duo. And _Dean’s_ other half.”

“Hey!” Dean reprimanded her, aghast she’d gone and directly gabbed to Cas he’d obviously been gossiping about their love life! “That’s not—!”

“She’s correct, I am both,” Cas conceded, his interrogation complete and the casual search for his jacket on. “I appreciate candor. You’re much too coy about our relationship; it cannot be a ‘work-place romance,’ as you like to say, when there’s only two of us.” While he donned his coat, he turned to the worst person to confirm: “Right, Charlie?”

With a wicked grin, the woman was in avid agreement, “Totally. Sounds like two people in a relationship utilizing each other’s talents.”

Sam, God bless him, played the role of Devil’s advocate, “Does it count if one’s being compensated monetarily?”

Which earned Dean’s lightening-fast retort, “Yeah, I’m not a prostitute—”

“You’ve already lost this battle because of the team you’ve chosen.” Cas clucked his tongue and shook his head, “I have too much dirt on you they’d be interested in and you don’t have nearly enough on me that they’d find remotely appealing.”  
  
Castiel stared off in contemplation before posing an inquiry aloud, “With the team in place, could I take Dean as my date?” He posed his question to Sam: the unbiased party.

“Yeah. Actually, that may look better.” While surprise initially flashed across his face, the concept quickly gained traction and steam, “Being close with your boyfriend instead of pressed against a bodyguard will send the message that you’re not afraid. That you’re living your life and the terrorists aren’t winning. It’d actually be excellent for the press,” Sam liked the idea more and more as he spoke. “And Dean would never be outside your reach—he’d be a human shield in case of gunfire.”

Dean’s face was flushed, deadpanning, “Good to know that’s what I’m worth. A flesh barrier.”

Unable to contain her excitement, Charlie clapped her hands, dumping more gasoline to the fire, “Do it! That’s an _awesome_ idea! A team of two makes sense: if the cavalry shows up it’ll leak out just how bad your situation really is. But anyone who sees us will think both of you have your own guards. Seems more legit, right?”

“Dean?” Cas turned and extended his hand. “Will you do me the honor of being my date this evening?”

In the background, he could hear, “oh em gee, so romantic!” and “actually, that _ was _ pretty smooth…” but Dean had to shake it off!

Forcing a grin, he narrowed his eyes at Cas. “How can I, a prostitute, refuse?”

“That’s the spirit.”

\-------------------------

The twist of fate was painful: Dean thought he’d piss off his boyfriend by exerting his authority and calling in a team, when in the end, Cas had one-upped him.

God, was he out of his depth!

From the second they were through security—after proving they _were security_ and Cas having to give approval for their concealed weapons—Dean felt like a piece of Cas’ ensemble on display. His boyfriend was coasting around in his element and Dean was used to his comfort zone: acting as his shadow, right outside the spotlight, not next to him!

The shebang was an outdoor festivity and the detail work that went into knitting together the scenic garden party was breathtaking. Cas was quite happy with himself, yet Dean didn’t know how that would translate when they arrived. Turns out, Cas was much _much_ more confident in them—in their relationship—than Dean could’ve imagined.

Not a second passed where Cas wasn’t holding his hand, or linking their arms. And he’d taken it a step further, helping to ease Dean’s nerves by making him a part of the night instead of a plus one to flaunt.  
  
He happily introduced him to every individual they ran into: friend or not. Cas made him feel…well, like this was real.

Once the flashbulbs began popping, a nervous energy stirred in Dean even though it didn’t cause Cas to bat an eye.

Pictures meant everyone in the world would know. This night and their connection would be memorialized, the news would spread to the good, the bad and the ugly: it struck a chord in Dean.

From their first steps on the scene, Charlie and Sam were alert, flanking them, and they added a measure of security which allowed Dean to casually sip the offered champagne. He was trying to fit in.

Once they found a more secluded section of the maze-like garden, he glanced over and motioned their escorts to hang back and give them some room. There was a question that was itching at Dean and he only saw one way to fix it.  
  
After claiming his spare moment of privacy, Dean turned to finally ask—

Clearly, Cas took notice of how ‘alone’ they were and took advantage of it. By grabbing a fistful of Dean’s jacket, hauling him forward into a hot, open-mouthed kiss instead of letting him speak—  
  
_ Goddammit_! Dean wasn't ready! Not for _that_!

Oh—but Cas’ clever tongue brushing against his, giving him a glimpse of all the things he could do with it was much too tempting…he couldn’t _not_ moan against his lips! It was a joke: the talent Cas had at his disposal with a mere flick of his tongue was enough to drop Dean’s pants, to double him in half, make him beg—

When they broke apart, Dean was flushed and speechless. His eyes revolved between his boyfriend’s darkened gaze, his spit-slick lips, wanting to kiss them swollen, wanting to do so much _more—_

“Y-you did that on purpose,” Dean accused, finally meeting his mischief-filled gaze. “So I wouldn’t say what I was gonna say—”

“No,” Cas’ intrigue was genuine. “Actually, I’ve been waiting for an opportunity to arise, I’ve wanted to kiss you all evening. This was unrelated and for my own selfish desires. Do you have any idea how gorgeous you look tonight, Dean?” 

Enraptured, he shook his head, tracing Dean’s jaw when he pronounced, “Everyone can see it. Everyone is watching you—I can see their amazement, feel their jealousy.“ Cas dared to wrench his fist in Dean’s collar and tug it down, confusing him. The shamelessly dive forward to friggin _suck a mark_ against his skin took guts—Dean’s knees nearly buckled from the animal-like impulse, pressure, the graze of teeth—only for Cas to fix the crease, promptly covering it up. “Good. Now you can feel a reminder of me.”

Dean fought against his wild, fluttering heart, but realized something. It gave him the upper hand. “’Everyone,’ you say? ‘Cause I don’t wanna be cocky, but I’m feeling some double-takes—must be my amazing ass—does that mean _you’re_ feeling jealous, Castiel?” Using all of his own words against him, Dean gestured to his throat, emphasizing, “Is this reminder really for me? Or is it a sign to anyone who may be looking too close?”

Fuck yes—he’d caught Cas redhanded. His cool demeanor turned frigid: he’d frozen over and had no idea where to go from there.

Just when he opened his mouth to give an explanation (one Dean already knew would be laced with false-bravado) he cut in ahead:

“Hey, I didn't take a time-out to get raunchy. I brought us back here to...you know, say thank you. I thought this shin-dig was gonna be revenge on me for hiring the team without clearing it with you, but you’ve actually...made me part of your life. Crazy part is, I'm not miserable—it’s been kinda fun.”  
  
Shrugging to remain nonchalant (even though the right words—if he could fuckin’ find them—were anything but), Dean focused on his main point: “I’m not sure why, but you didn’t stop at introductions. You’ve gone out on a limb and made me feel important. You gotta trust me when I say: I’ve only got eyes for you...that’s not something you'll ever need to second-guess or questions. it’s a fact. What I was wondering…” Dean pursed his lips together, his attention flitting to the ground before meeting Cas’. “Are you okay with it? With your friends, the press, and soon—the world—knowing about us?”

A grin tugged at the corners of his mouth while he was analyzing Dean. “You act like I hadn’t known this would happen when I invited you. As though your revealing a grand surprise.”

“Did you know?” Dean raised an astonished eyebrow, “’Cause it felt like spontaneous revenge. I thought you were doin’ math—uninvited Charlie plus Sam, equaled you gettin’ to fuck with me in public.”

“Truthfully?” Cas took both Dean’s hands into his own, a rare doting tone in his admission, “I was weighing my options for days. Attempting to come up with some airtight reason for you to join me as my date. My date. Period. How lucky was I—that you provided the perfect cover for me?”

Blinking and taking in the words, Dean was stunned. “So we’re not a secret anymore.”

“I never asked us to be a secret.” Leaning in, kissing Dean on the cheek, he pointed out, “I believe the apprehension was all in _your_ head. As it tends to be.”

Yep, that’s where his dumbstruck, giddy stammering began. “Well, I-I was just thinkin’ when it came to _politics_, and b-being openly gay, and depending on what part of the world and—” he stopped just as choppily.

Because once Dean listened to himself, he recognized: Cas was right. It was all in his head.

An over-exaggerated yet therapeutic sigh collapsed the tension in his shoulders, smiling gleefully at Cas. “Jesus, you’re too good for me. Telling me the way it is, no bullshit, I need that. Guess I’m still scarred from ‘Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell,’ I assume everyone wants to hide it until…they can’t anymore. I’m sorry.” He pumped his full intentions into the words, “And of fucking course, I want the world to know.”

“Much, much better,” Cas praised, his palm cupping the side of his cheek, kissing him again.

“Okay!” Charlie’s voice piped up out of nowhere, but it sure sounded like she'd been hiding in the damn bushes like a creep! “Private time is over, return to the group!”

They lingered together, bumping and grazing noses, before they both laughed and began to join to their security. Charlie was a happy clam, giving them a brief once-over before she went back to her post. Sam simply shook his head—yet equally content to watch the couple, and if he had the chance to gloat about the set-up, he totally would.

Dean had a feeling if his little brother _ did _ land on the topic, he’d never hear the end of it.

\----------------------------

“I can’t believe that shit!” Dean groused as the four piled back into the limo. “This would’ve been the perfect place to take you out. Why did the Nazis play hooky?”

“I think you answered your own question, dude. Nazis don‘t use their heads! Can we call it like it is? A win?” Charlie shared a secret look (most likely an inside joke) with Sam as they pulled out into the street, both with impish grin coupled and Charlie's comment, “Although, we did have a false alarm. Not surprised you goons missed it.”

“What?” Dean’s eyes doubled in size, looking between his friend and his brother. “Are you serious?! What happened? What kind of threat did you spot? Was it a code—”

“Relax, it's already the kind of thing we can laugh at,” Sam waved him off in dismissal. “Some paparazzo ducked into a restricted area. Thought he could tail you guys if he blended into the party, hiding his credentials. We were on top of it. Charlie, in the most literal sense—she nearly shredded her gown when she tackled him into a rosebush! We thought he was drawing a weapon—it turned out to be his camera.” Damn, Dean was disappointed he missed it, his brother was in the midst of a belly laugh—  
  
—_Until_ glancing over and finding himself on the wrong side of a fierce and sharp cutting glare.  
  
Instantly, Sam amended, “Your reflexes save lives, Charlie! It could’ve just as easily been a grenade! You didn’t know!”

“I _did_ rip my dress!" she corrected, indignantly, "and who the fuck smuggles in a camera tucked down their pants, next to their schlong?” she grumbled and flung the trail of her gown for effect to highlight the rip.  
  
After Charlie tossed the fabric and the bottom landed on the limo floor—

—Dean was awash in disbelief. _How_ could he have been so absolutely and completely ignorant to a tail? Especially the sloppy moves of a _reporter_, not even a trained operative?! But wait—

“You’re not surprised? Disappointed? Friggin _appalled_?” He turned back to Charlie, “I should’ve—!”

“Chill out, you were having a date night with your boo. Can’t exactly look over your shoulder when your heart-eyes are too big for your face, right.” She batted her lashes, and—true to form—sneaked in one more saucy quip: “You know, Dean…you can stretch out. This limo _is_ ginormously huge.”

Even when he didn’t get _ said _ quip.

“Whu—?” Dean glanced around to figure out what the hell she was talking about...

Oh. Oh! He was _ definitely _ in Cas’ lap.

This was becoming a thing.

Dean rolled over, narrowly avoiding a hitch along the way and toppling to the floor. Goddamn that champagne!  
  
Either he'd been roofied or it caught up with him, fast! Actually, in retrospect...Dean didn’t think he’d ever had champagne until tonight…let alone the good stuff…let alone that much. He was finding out along the way it made him _cuddly_. And utterly oblivious to the stalker-y press.

That’s why he had assembled his team, right?

Sam was kicked back, wearing a shit-eating grin. “I agree with Char. It’s a win. We’ll do a sweep once we get back and then tuck you two lovebirds in for the night.”

“Thank you for using your free time assisting us,” Cas snatched up Dean’s hand, then directed his focus to Sam and Charlie. “I’ll be sure to compensate you.”

Dean protested, “Hey, you don’t need to, that wasn’t part of the deal—”

“Let me do this,” he whispered right back. “I was able to spend time out in the world with you. Such an event is invaluable.”

Charlie muttered to Sam, “_Damn_, he’s a sweet-talker!” and he replied back, “I know, Dean is doomed—” and (normally, Cas was a huge dick) until_ he wasn't._  
  
Now, Sam and Charlie were both right. He had these remarkable moments, and when Cas did: they were so breath-taking, make-your-heart-skip-a-beat romantic, it cleared his slate without question.

Tipsy Dean couldn’t resist his suave boyfriend, even when he felt weird about Cas paying off his brother and best friend. At least it was for their services, and not bribery to look the other way in the event of a cover-up, right? Could be worse. Plus, he was totally right—there were times during the evening when Dean had forgotten the imminent danger—where they could make-believe they were the same as any other couple—

Well, a couple who was _Coming Out _in the limelight, posing for the media, meeting with UN and government officials and random celebrities while they pretended (for one night) hate groups and Nazi assassins weren’t after them.

Yes, sir—they were living the dream!

Dean began laughing aloud at the farce his life had become, all three of the others staring him down like he’d lost his marbles. Maybe he had.

When he explained, “I never thought I’d wind up here, but I’m stupid-happy,” everyone…got it.

They understood and slackened at ease, returning back to however they’d been lounging before—the energy lighter. Dean’s joy was contagious.

It certainly was for Cas, who tugged him closer—not into his lap this time, just close enough to where their sides were pressed together and he hummed in contentment when Dean tipped his head onto his boyfriend’s shoulder.

“Whenever you need a break, Dean—I’m ready to take a shift. God knows the PD doesn’t pay me enough,” Charlie announced with a waggle of her eyebrows and, whether it was in jest or not, Dean was tempted to take her up on that offer. “You deserve a kick-back-and-happy night.”

“You’re the best, Char. Greed, and all.”

“I know, I know.”

\-----------------------------

Most of the time, Dean trusted his gut.

The time they took to find a remote motel tucked away, the limo ride that changed over into an unmarked car into a shabby fixer-upper so they wouldn’t be followed—it gave him a sense of security. Like…if Cas hadn’t been sniped at the event? They couldn’t possibly find him here.

After the three of them cleared the room, Charlie and Sam bidding them goodnight…who knew if it was the booze talking or what, but Dean felt pretty damn safe.

He felt confident to turn around and stalk towards Cas, grabbing the lapels of his tuxedo and roughly dragging him into a kiss. For the first time that night, he’d taken his boyfriend off guard—Cas gasping against his lips, before Dean made one more bold move.

In a world where they never slowed down, where it felt like they were constantly on the run—Dean and Castiel could never truly indulge. Never let their guard down.  
  
Tonight, Cas had revealed a bit more of himself to Dean, about what he meant to him and how much he was willing to give—returning it felt important.

Even if it wasn’t the smartest idea, Dean lured Cas to sit on the bed and sensually peeled away his suit, piece by piece.

Any other day, they would have felt rushed, Dean‘s gun on the bedside table was a constant weight in their mind. They couldn’t take their time and enjoy one another, always leaving _something_ to clothe them, because taking on an assassin buck-ass naked? Wasn’t the smartest idea.

Yeah, it was a gamble: but it was a calculated risk he was willing to take. For Cas.

Even if he had proved (time and time again) to be a little shit—drawing in the enemy, setting Dean up, living for each moment he could make him blush, Dean…was in love.

Nope, that wasn’t the liquor talking. The champagne made what he already knew obvious, easier to accept, while he stood in front of Cas—naked and illuminated by the nightstand light—nibbling and flicking his tongue along his earlobe. It was a sign _to take _as Dean began slowly undressing him, never reaching to turn off the light.

After shrugging off his tuxedo coat, he spread Cas out on the bed to enjoy his reaction of being the one pushed around. And Cas…he was breathless.

Sure, Cas’ hands couldn’t stay away, they roamed along his sides, digging into the meat of his thighs and gave Dean the feeling of being untouchable and confident. His own action actually surprised the hell out of him. He hadn't a clue whether his fearlessness had come from his self-actualization that he was in love, or the reactions he pulled from Cas in the moment.

One thing he knew for sure? Cas was stunning. Flushed, pupils darkened with intense lust-filled eyes, barely holding himself back.

His tie, belt and shoes were tossed out somewhere on the floor, his shirt hanging open for Dean’s mouth to suck down on his collar bone, becoming more needy and haphazardly ripping both Cas’ boxers and slacks down.

Cas felt the desperation, kicking them away and shooting to sit up—ridding himself of the shirt. When Cas rose, he wrapped his arms around Dean’s waist, tripping him up, collapsing down to his knees and directly onto Cas.

Dean’s first instinct was to complain, to fight back but—_goddammit_, when their skin pressed together, the electricity sparked like fireworks.

And it was…different.

Cas never normally hesitated to dig his nails into Dean’s back, the passionate red trails lingering for days, but he was purposefully holding back. No—not with his touch or his kiss, but the way he held Dean, the way they tumbled together…it felt like they were drawn into one another, like the force of gravity pulled them, rather than their usual: two trains headed on a collision course.

Tracing his jaw led to Cas’ thumb brushing over a tender spot on Dean’s throat, and that reminded him: his thoughts spinning back to the gala and—

Very suddenly Dean wondered: were they on the same page? How did they get there? And if so…this was better than he could’ve imagined.

So he fished.

“How long were you trying to figure out your plan?” Dean asked the question in a hot breath against Cas’ cheek. “And when did you want me to make the switch? From guard to your date?”

Cas chuckled and cupped Dean’s cheeks, drawing him closer and holding his focus. “You already know damn well when you changed from my guard to my ‘date,’” the word was cynically dramatic on his lips. “It wasn’t a matter of when I wanted it, but when you were ready.”

Being called out alarmed him, but he was unable to pull away from Cas' hold. Instead, Dean bumbled out, “What does that mean? When was I ‘ready?’” he echoed the same tone to Cas, before his words turned into a long, moan of pleasure—Cas picking up his knees until Dean slid down into his lap, gaining friction against his cock.

“For such a highly-skilled strategist and well-trained tactician, you can be rather dense.” Cas seized his chin steady while his other hand fell between them and wrapped around their dicks. “Is it truly because of your past? Or is it cynicism over the future?”

How was he supposed to answer the questions while Cas was jerking them off together?! The freakin’ sociopath! Jesus—Dean felt like the already-warm and fuzzy world was becoming more blurred on the edges while their mixed precum made Cas’ hand feel that much more incredible.

Dean’s arms latched around Cas’ neck for something to hold on to—but when his boyfriend languidly pulled to a stop…fuck—! He knew Cas wanted an answer!

Panting and defiantly meeting Cas’ gaze, he got right to the point. “When you got what you wanted—did it feel right?”

His brow screwed up in confusion, now _Cas_ was the one at a disadvantage. “Yes, it did. It made more sense to have you proudly beside me, than in the shadows in front of me.”

God, Dean couldn’t have asked for a better answer. There was no time like the present to cut to the chase, right?

“I-I need to know this is real. I need to know if I need to back off, if I’m gonna get hurt, because…fuck, Cas, I’m in over my head with you.” He urged, “Please, tell me now—”

“That, once and for all, I’m not an emotionless, crazed killer?” There was a quirked grin on his face, before he closed the space between them and blew Dean’s mind with a staggering, deep kiss. Only drawing away a few inches, he confessed, “Then we’re both in over our heads. And I promise you, my feeling, my intentions and how badly I want to be with you is as real as any signed contract. Just as urgent as your passion to see a mission through.”

“I’ve tried to be candid, and I’ll continue—transparency is what you need.” Cas clucked his tongue when, for the first time, his eyes left Dean’s to soak in the sight of his body. “In the spirit of honesty, I don’t think I can hold back much longer. Although, I don’t know whether to make love to you, or watch you ride me.”

All Dean’s body wanted to do was shake, to quiver like a goddamn leaf—but he had been given the one thing he’d wanted more than anything. Answers, instead of assumptions and worries.

So Dean gave an answer of his own.

“You know you can have both, right?” He was glowing, using Cas’ surprise to his advantage and pinning him to the bed again. He leaned down, sucking and tugging on his boyfriend’s bottom lip while their erections ground together, and whispered, “Let me show you how addicted to you I am.”  
  


Nothing, not hell, high water or any other act of God would get between him and Cas. Thankfully for both of them, Dean was a reach away from digging into the travel bag. He'd planned ahead, knowing it'd be tacky to have lube and condoms laying out for Jo and Sam to see, but there was little doubt (especially these days) they’d wind up in bed together. And that meant they’d need to be within arm's length.

A zipper tug later, Dean had the items in hand, yet Cas was being rebellious—surging up to mouth against his chest. Rolling Dean’s nipples into hard, sensitive buds with the light tease of teeth made him drop his things and whimper out a string of curses—but, God, it felt so good—

He knew it would feel better when Cas was inside him. Yeah, _that_ was enough to get his shit together.

Grabbing a condom and ripping away at the foil prompted an interesting complaint from Cas. His admission, “I don’t mind the threat of death. But do you have any idea what I would give to feel you without any barrier?”

His heart skipped a beat, because…yeah, Dean thought about that. All the fucking time. Even as he rolled the condom onto Cas, he deflected and teased to make it easier. “Maybe you shouldn’t go on live TV and taunt dirty-ass Nazis, huh? Then we wouldn’t have to worry about blood baths.”

Because that _was_ the worry. Of course, they were monogamous—Dean assumed…prayed, you know what? he _knew_—but the constant battles were another risk. Who knew where these knife-fighting fuckers had been. A bleeding gash in close-quarter combat next to a gaping wound or even a paper cut didn't matter—it yielded the same results and crapshoot of infection as an unprotected one-night-stand would.

Dean coated Cas’ cock with lube, gratuitously stroking him and distracting him from the cold, hard truth.

As stupid as it sounded, maybe if they were only dating and had this (massive) problem a tad more controlled, Dean wouldn’t worry about a condom—it seemed like overkill for as many times as he got tested. Still…a part of him, first and foremost, played the constant reminder: his job was to protect Cas, to protect others from Cas and maybe protect Cas from himself. He’d take any precautions needed.

The moment he began to sink down on Cas’ shaft, filling himself full of his boyfriend’s cock—Dean didn’t need to think anymore. He savored the moment of being stuffed full, right when Cas reached out to kiss him like he meant it.

Dean began lifting himself up and fucking himself down—it wasn’t fast and furious, but visceral and raw. When Cas moved with him, they linked up their bodies to come together in a smooth loop, Dean still able to feel the drag, experience the long thrusts and deep plunges. Everything about their intentions tonight was different. You could taste it, feel the heavy weight in the air.

As Cas said, “I don’t regret what I did. But if I could take it back, I would—for you,” he latched onto the mark he’d created earlier in the night.

If Dean hadn't been so utterly entangled, pleasure overtaking his system—he would’ve laughed. Those words marked the closest Cas could (and ever would) get to admitted a mistake or apologizing. While positive Cas would do it all over again, that’s who he was, the thought and the gesture was grand—wasn’t it?

“One day, we’ll escape this,” Dean hummed out, mouthing the hinge of his jaw—memorizing the way Cas' hands moved, covering his body with a caress that wholly felt like love. “One day, they’ll get sick of losing. One day, we’ll be able to...exist, to know some kind of normal together. And one day, so long as your cock’s wet, you’ll be able to fuck me when ever and where ever you want without a damn think in your way.”

He’d never heard the noise he’d milked from Cas with his tantalizing proposal, but it spiked his hunger and need ten-fold.

Dean mewled and braced himself—Cas upped the tempo and slammed into him while pulling them together, even closer still. The sweat from their bodies, the promises and hushed keen on their lips were a different variety—Dean patted himself on the back, because—holy hell—Cas _ wasn't only_ capable of making love: his abilities were beyond words—

That itching, faraway terror of ’what-if’ had vaporized the entire time they clutched onto each other. Moving in perfect harmony, a desperation took hold and Dean fought to keep pace when the assault on his senses, the unyielding attention and pressure against his prostate was too much—

“Cas—fuck—I’m yours. A-as long as you want me, long as you'll have me—” His words turned into a wrenched cry, one that was met with Cas’ wanton kiss and fevered touch.

When he confessed the words, “I may want you forever,” Dean was blowing his load and smashing their lips together all over again. Trying, fighting in the midst of his pleasure not to say something stupid—rather to _show_ Cas his agreement and his appreciation.

Because that thought, knowing Cas felt it enough to bring it out into the open air—Dean’s heart ran wild, did flip-flops, wound up somewhere that wasn’t in his chest anymore.

Once they cleaned up, their ragged breaths calmed down and their lungs no longer labored…maybe Dean clung on tighter than usual. Maybe Cas even let him, beckoned him forward, wearing a knowing and happy smile.

“Tonight was a good night,” Dean decided, and dared to say, “Forever doesn’t sound half bad, either.”

Cas sounded partially intrigued and another part surprised—pulling Dean in tighter. He scoffed, “I pray you won’t be facing domestic terrorists in a nursing home with me.”

“And _I_ hope you’ll refrain from sharpening the end of your cane into a shiv,” he teased right back and chuckled. “What a pair we make, huh?”

“Odd, but fascinatingly perfect.” Hesitation was evident when Cas wondered, “Are we going to stay like this? Can we?”

And that hesitation made sense.

You know: the whole defenseless, naked, totally at the mercy of attackers, thing.

Except…Dean already made a choice about it from the moment he began undressing them.

“Yeah, Cas. We’re gonna stay just like this tonight—” and he was swept into a beautiful, tender assault of affection, thanks and the…sweetest kisses his lips had ever felt.

He'd fallen in love with every side of Cas, but this hidden piece capable of worshiping affection was still surprising. After all, while his boyfriend was friggin awesome, he _did_ have the bad habit of ‘self defense’ killing when he was mildly inconvenienced. Yet when it came to them, the pair of them—Dean felt loved. He didn’t know what the fuck it made Cas, but he was happy. He was _damn_ happy and he prayed his wishful thinking didn’t end in disaster tonight.   
  
All he wanted was to give and receive what tonight had to offer from start to finish—it was a turning point.

They fell asleep kissing one another, wrapped in each other’s embrace and Dean didn’t have a single regret. He'd found an exception that was absolutely worth the risk.


	8. Chapter Seven

The weather had been horrible. It had reached the point where Dean already anticipated any air travel would be grounded—private or commercial—so he decided to spring the idea of a ‘weekend in’ to Cas and see where his head was at.

You know...as, like, it was a creative way to keep them under the radar, and all. Without any immediate engagements, Dean felt like they certainly deserved a staycation.

When Cas actually agreed with him, going as far as to say it sounded like a grand idea, Dean milked it for every second he could.

They planted themselves in DC, taking full advantage of that long, stormy weekend in bed, hardly being bothered with clothes at all. Dean called for delivery using a unique and ever-changing range of fake name, giving them addresses to rooms on the other side of the hotel. He’d stake them out beforehand to know no guests had checked in to the rooms, never running the risk of getting civilians caught up in the shuffle of their safety measures.  
  
From there, he’d don a disguise and wait outside the door to retrieve their food and pay. Lingering long enough to ‘check out the order,’ making sure the delivery car was out of sight and eventually take an elaborate route up, down and through the hotel floors to return to where he and Cas had camped out.

It was fucking awesome.

The getaway worked wonders to re-established the whole…’them’ situation without the high stakes of running from the bad guys who _finally_ slowed their roll. Taking advantage of this shift happening in their dynamic felt pivotal, almost urgent—like if Dean didn’t act on it, they could revert back to limbo. Or maybe Cas would second-guess what they were doing and change the terms of their relationship, whipping out the contract for back-up or something.  
  
The more they were together, the more Dean felt solid, grounded this was the real deal: genuine connect, more than a work-place romance, or a right-here-right-now fling.

Dean had found a new existence between human and happy, purring cat—a content sigh rumbling in his chest, while they lounged together, finishing up a late-night dinner in bed.  
  
The big question on everyone’s mind’s was when the storm front would break. As they continued to flip through the weather channels and big news stations, it didn’t look like anyone had answers.

It wasn’t like either of them was in much hurry, they could stay curled up in front of the TV as they were until the end of the world…

Later that evening when Dean hit the local station, he pointed out, “There we go. Looks like the chaos should be clearing out tomorrow,” trying to hide the tinges of remorse.  
  
He'd settled into this escape and wasn't ready to let go, nor head back to the real world.

“Well, that means we have until tomorrow.” Cas brushed his lips against Dean’s throat, the puff of heat doing amazing things and making him shiver. “We’ll begin planning then.”

“Yeah?” He could get down with that. What surprised him was Cas' ability to stay here, normally he'd be the first to get cabin fever—that's why he turned down to catch Cas’ eye. “You’re really okay with all this, huh? Just…breezing by? Doing nothing?”

Cas scooted up against the pillows to better address him, the amusement vibrant. “Of course. And I’m not ‘doing nothing.’ I’m spending quality time with you. Having captivating discussions. Growing, strengthening our bond. Fucking you in every way I can have y—”

“Yep—got it, we’ve done lots!” he assured—and fast, patting Cas on the cheek, shaking off his nervous (yet forever-aroused) energy. “Yer gonna get me going again. We should probably do more captivating and strengthening before we…find ourselves stuck bed forever. Again.”

“From your previous sentiments, I was under the impression you never intended to leave anyway.”

Dean knew by now, Cas was just fucking around with him because he could _finally_ read his smile like a book—it was happy and playful—the carefully-guarded side Dean never imagined he’d be let in on, let alone be the reason for _inspiring_.  
  
When it came down to it, Cas had this warm, loving side that went on forever—but it took something special to bring it out. Hot damn, did Dean hit the lottery, and know that he was special enough to unlock the gates.

He chuckled and admitted, “You’re right, you know. You're always right.” Dean kissed his forehead, fingertips tracing the line of Cas’ cheekbones, his jaw, suggesting, “Wanna make out?”

Except…Cas wasn’t responding.

This was usually around the time his boyfriend would pounce.

Instead, when Dean looked back: Cas’ focus was drawn forward, back towards the _ TV_. He’d been sucked in, attention, focus and all—like Dean wasn't in the room. What the hell...Dean may understand if they were under attack, but it was painfully obvious he was giving Cas the go-ahead for another round. Nothing got in his boyfriend's way when it came to sex. Uh...Dean had read the situation right, hadn’t he? What the hell!

Hesitantly, Dean grumbled, “Well, we don’t have to make out, we can watch a movie or somethin’, I just thought that—”

“Dean.” It was eerie, flashing back to his previous ice-cold robotics when they were strangers.

His gut reaction sent up red flags, his eyes zoomed around every inch of the room on full-alert, thinking maybe someone _was here_—that the enemy had found them, even _ after _ all the precautions!  
  
But, no…no one…he popped up and swept the entire suite, whipping around and giving it a thorough 360-analysis, and instead of finding a person or answer—Dean was more confused than ever—   
  
He tumbled back to his still-warm spot—Cas still hadn’t turned to face him.

“What is it, babe?” He tried a coaxing approach, he had no idea what was going on in his head and he needed to go straight to the source, “Hey. You gotta—”

“Where did you dump the body?”

With saucer-like eyes and a slack jaw, Dean dumbly asked, “What? What bo—?”

Castiel’s glower was fierce, refocusing on him for two seconds (enough to leverage a rough grip on his chin) and wrench Dean’s attention to the TV.

What had previously been the weather forecast was overhauled by bold print and flashing red script. The first alarm to ring was in the form of a loud scrolling banner across the bottom of the screen:

“_Breaking News—Dismembered Body Washes Ashore Post-Flood_”

“_Live—From Local 4 News: Gruesome Discovery Prompts Local and Federal Investigation_”

Even when the headlines froze Dean’s blood and made his veins ice over, his hand still had enough circulation to dart for the remote. He cranked up the volume, drowning out any of Cas’ additional words, needing to know what the reporter was saying, because—fuck—! What was going on?!

This wasn’t supposed to happen! Of all the freak accidents and reasons for his perfect dump to go astray—

The report’s voice confirmed all his worst fears, “Officers responding to a call quickly concluded a dam had broken up stream, causing the body’s relocation and puzzle pieces to wash ashore...”

“Confusing Evidence Begs Question: Mobster or Dahmer?“ The video footage scanned over police evidence of their ‘find,’ panning over blurred out blobs on the ground—it didn’t take a genius to guess those were chunks of a human.

While the headlines flew by, Dean honed into the reporter’s words—because if there was one thing he knew about DC: the press were like vultures! There was no way this ‘incident’ went straight to the cops without journalists swarming, and they undoubtedly knew just as much (if not more) as authorities—

“A record-setting storm season hasn’t only stifled travel and left thousands on the east coast stranded, it also changed the lives of two teenagers who were making the best of their time, mudding down a back road. The young men were on four-wheelers traveling down a popular access path when they noticed something very wrong.” She dramatically paused, the screen cutting over to an interview feed.

The first kid was wide-eyed and zit-covered, stammering over his tongue, “We were out to have a good time! We were goin’ down our usual trail. And, yeah, it’s usually wet, that’s why we go out, to get dirty, but, like—”

“It wasn’t just rainwater!” the second boy—God, they weren’t even old enough to drive a fuckin’ _golf cart_!—cut him off. “Nah, this wasn’t inches, it was feet! We took a peek further up the trail, it was like a-a stream. That’s when we realized the dam broke, and the lake was drainin’ clear over here!” his voice trembled as he pointed wildly over his shoulder.

The interviewer led them, asking the shell shocked teens, “You continued exploring: what did you find?”

Both young men were gaping, staring at each other, then turning to face the camera. One blurted, “A dead dude!” while the other gasped, “_BLEEP_ing hacked up pieces!” and the screen faded back to the newsanchor.

“Their vehicles were able to navigate further upstream before coming across the first, of what police would soon find to be numerous, tightly-wrapped, dismembered sections of human remains. While the 911 callers happened upon a leg, detectives have cordoned off the area and are slowly, but surely, collecting the pieces of what they believe to be one body. Inside the plastic reveals a picture of a disturbed mind and a chilling story of what they believe may have happened.”  
  
“Oh, bite me, motherfucker…” Dean ground his teeth and hissed under his breath, unable to keep his own commentary silent any longer.

“—and zip ties were found attached to the tightly-wrapped body parts. Once the dive team was called in to sweep the lake, they found more remains weighted to the lake floor with cinder blocks. The nature of the disposal begs the question—could this be a mob hit? But then again,” her voice dropped into a low, foreboding pitch, “Could it be more sinister—seeing how the victim was mutilated?”

The broadcast flashed to a sheriff holding an impromptu press conference, multiple microphones jammed in his face instead of the controlled chaos of a podium. “The State Police have secured the area and right now, our focus is collecting every part of this poor victim. We have divers, cadaver dogs, and search teams combing every inch of the lake and run-off areas. As soon as we’ve recovered the body and all the evidence, we’ll be assisting the FBI, who’ll take lead—”

“The friggin FBI?!” Dean exploded, gaping at the TV—his voice finally overpowering the TV's volume.

Slapping a hand over his mouth was a damn good try to shut himself up, to get more information...but the time was over. Cas was done with it.

“Of course, the FBI is involved. This is DC. A slam-dunk high profile case is excellent for PR when they come across someone who has no idea _how the fuck_ to dump a body!” Cas growled out, “You wonder how quickly this person will be found, since finding the evidence was the definition of _ child’s play_: the work of pock-marked, goddamn _children_, skipping down the road to locate the—”

Oh hell no!

“Oh, I apologize—this wasn’t ’The Perfect Murder,’” Dean’s voice was dripping sarcasm, shooting to sit up ram-rod straight when he shouted, “You fuckin’ psycho homicidal maniac!”

Cas’ face fell, before his glare sharpened into something dangerous, “I beg your pardon?”

“Hey! Before you even think about going off on me, did you forget the tornado that rolled through?” He made a sweeping gesture with his arm—the damage was evident on the TV—it was on _right now!_  
  
There was no way he could’ve predicated that lake being disturbed! To take it further, in all the time Dean had been around this area—that lake was the steadiest body of water he could've chosen, flooding or no!

Still, Cas snapped back, “You should have come up with a contingency.”

“For a _ tornado_? An act of god?!” Normally, the insanity of something like this might render Dean speechless—but he was pissed—he was being faulted, actually _blamed_. “Huh—why don’t I plan for a surprise volcano eruption while I’m at it! A rocky mountain category five hurricane!? I’ll have ‘contingency’ up the wazoo, and—”

“At least lava would conceal the remains the first time. Which is more than I can say for you—”

“That’s it! You can screw yourself, Cas!” He jumped up from the bed altogether, and began unwinding the magic that was their weekend. There was a fury in his bones and resentment tightening his muscles as he jammed his leisurely spread-out belongings back into his bag, feeling the weight of eyes boring holes into his back. “Get your shit together. Since the FBI is on the case, we need to head for the border.”

“Good. Once I’m a fugitive, I’ll finally be free of your stupid rules on moral obligation.” Ripping back the covers, Cas did the same—over-aggressively packing up and sneering, “I’ll be better suited to cartel life, anyway. I’ve always wanted to be an entrepreneur.”

“Hah! Is that your plan?” Dean whipped around with a wild grin, and milked his words with a sick and sweet, _ sweet _ satisfaction—watching Cas wilt before his eyes:

“Joke’s on you. You’ve got the wrong border, baby!” Dean slowly pronounced, “We’re going north. Where yer gonna have to pretend to be a pleasant, kind and cheerful _Canadian_. For the rest of your hateful, blood-thirsty, bitter existence. Get ready to flex your acting muscles and be neighborly, you prick.”

Aghast, shaking his head, Cas’ words, “You wouldn’t…” were barely a whisper.

“Oh. I would—I _ will_. And you don’t have a choice. This is me doing my job,” he snarled out. “Grab a goddamn parka and say adieu to the US, _eh_?”

His mouth slammed shut, and thus began the silent treatment.

Dean didn’t care—he was saving Cas’ ass. That’s what he had been trying to do from the very beginning! He wasn’t going to stop now. No matter what kind of hell Cas was putting him though, Dean had been through these paces before and he had his mission.  
  
And no matter what...he loved the crazy asshole...so there was _that_...

Fuck! None of this was in the game plan but they needed to hightail it out.  
  
Dean knew the connections—the buried links were there if the Feds dug deep...they were racing against time. Crossing the border, before they fell under a cloud of suspicion was their only way out.

Fleeing _before_ they were suspects.

They needed to get the fuck out of DC.

\----------------------------------------

From the moment they hit the road, tensions were high.  
  
That was one of the problems—Cas, in the past, had been apathetic, at best—even when Dean was actively masking his stress.

At four am, they were the only car on the highway, speeding towards the turnpike. Mulling it over, taking all his options into account and weighing the pros and cons, Dean eventually made the choice to stay on the map.  
  
Once they veered into Ohio en route towards Michigan (their destination Detroit), maybe then they’d begin to fade into obscurity. If they disappeared now, it’d look suspicious.

No, for the time being: they needed to keep up a presence. If they cops wanted to track them, to interview them, they needed to be available. Cas (and Dean for that matter) couldn’t give them any probable cause.  
  
_Looking_ like they were on the run and jumping off the radar was as good as offering a guilty plea, even if they hadn’t been suspects before.

Once the sun was rising and they were crossing into Pennsylvania, Dean had to bite the bullet. He had to do the one thing he promised himself he wouldn’t…

Dammit, he needed inside intel in the worst way. Unfortunately, he’d be putting both of them in a compromising situation to do it. He hoped he was doing the right thing, that it paid off.

He glanced over his shoulder and checked on his passenger. No matter how fussy and how set he was pouting at the moment, Dean knew there was no avoiding it.  
  
Getting ahead (for Cas’ sake) was imperative, and once they were cleared: nothing else mattered. They’d be able to fade away, disappear up north wherever the road took them.

Eventually, officials would identify the body as the Nazi scum he was. Maybe they’d realize it didn’t matter if their prime suspect got away. Maybe they wouldn’t go as far as to look into suspects.  
  
Maybe they could do them a solid, call it case-closed—it was a wild suicide, followed by spontaneously combustion into little pieces, that then magnetically attached to cinderblocks that sunk down to the bottom of the lake?

The dude really was that horrible…

Dean swallowed hard, listening to the phone ring against his ear.

Seeing the device in his hand attracted Cas’ interest, but he was still too stubborn to voice any curiosities aloud. The car was quiet enough for him to hear the conversation, Dean had turned the radio off intentionally.

Except, when Charlie greeted, “G’morning, Sunshine! How was your long, romantic, weekend getaway?” Cas’ hackles rose and he vehemently shook his head—like he was ordering Dean to stop, dissuading Dean from whatever he was doing, but—

Dean couldn’t do this alone.

“Hah—” Oh, the irony hurt something awful. “Nice while it lasted, I guess. But we gotta change gears away from gossip—I’m in a bit of a bind. I need you to listen to me, and listen carefully—okay? You, as a recipient, know all about our usual drop-off packages. The first one I tried to send was…damaged. It got lost in the mail and I didn’t worry about sending it a second time, or whatever, because I had insurance...until recently. Apparently, my boyfriend failed to tell me whether insurance would’ve helped cover the package.”

Charlie’s voice was hushed, monotone, when she said, “Okay,” as a means of urging him forward.

“This package was the same as the others. But the postage, the damaged goods were all wrong and we cut our losses. We don’t think there’s a return address on it, we wanna keep it that way. At least until…” Dean couldn’t come up with a colorful code, and—knowing Charlie’s phone wasn’t being tapped, no way she's fall for that—Dean said fuck it: “Okay, we need you to watch the radios until we’ve crossed into Canada.”

“Wow.” Cas heavily rolled his eyes and slumped in the seat. “Subtle. Smooth.”

“Shut up—” he spat, before directing his attention back to Charlie. “Sorry, Cas is blaming all this on me when he’s the one who killed and cut up the dude—”

“Could you _possibly_ incriminate us any more?!” Castiel spun around and lunged for the phone, “You won’t say anything else—_dammit, Dean_—you _won’t_ take me down with you—!”

“Do you wanna go out in flames, you douchenozzle! Yer gonna make us _crash the fuckin’ car_—!!”

Charlie‘s voice was a shrill cry slicing through the air: “Guys! Stop it! _Dean_. Tell me what you were going to say. I refuse to listen to you asshats wreck on the highway!”

Dean flashed a ‘I-Told-You-So’ patronizing stare, Cas huffing to turn back to road, staring off to the pavement ahead blankly.

“Sorry. Anyway, you can tell we’re in hot water and we’re, _ ahem_, struggling to work together. I know it’s a lot to ask—but if, by some chance, you’d be willing, I’d only need two days of information.” He was begging, it was a raw plea, because (while he hated getting Charlie involved) he desperately needed her back-up. “After that, pretend like you never knew us. Never heard our names. Or, hell, give us up. Get yourself a promotion—an award, you deserve it for putting up with me. I don’t care, but I need to know: are you in or out?”

Where Dean expected a lengthy pause, sputtered, half-start, or maybe even the Charlie-like way she’d brainstorm aloud, he didn’t get any of those things.

“I’m in.” Not a lick of hesitation. “What was the latest you heard?”

“Oh, wow.” Dean physically reared back, clutching the steering wheel to anchor himself to the Earth. But he had to remember: Charlie was awesome. She was his best friend for a reason, right? “Last hour, I heard something about sixty percent of the body being recovered. Luckily, the storm ripped open the bags real nice and decomp is making time of death hard, isn’t it?”

“Yeah…or at least, that’s what the news says.”

“I don’t like your tone…”

His wariness drew Cas’ focus again, their eyes locked when Charlie said, “You’re lucky to have me, you know?”

“Oh, God. Just blurt it out! Needy and freakin’ out isn’t a good look on me.”

“There’s no good way to break this to you...so here we go.“ She blew through her lips and blurted, “They found the head. And, dudes, whoever wrapped that sucker? Did a hell of a job. All the other pieces were sloughing off, there was barely any flesh left at all, but the head…” Charlie whistled, and Dean prepared himself for Cas to verbally assault him all over again.

Especially when Charlie came back with, “_Perfect _ dentition. The cold temperature at the bottom of the lake, plus the bag—it acted like a fridge or at damn ice box. If they don’t get a hit off dentals, they may get a one from facial recognition.”

Before Cas could yell at him about his wrap job, he went on the _ offensive_.  
  
Dean’s surprised jaw-drop turned to face his who-the-fuck-knew-maybe-still-boyfriend, awe-stuck, “The fuck—you don’t smash out their teeth—?!”

He countered, “And even after being coddled, you can’t find a decent means of disposal?!”

“Oh, Lord!” Charlie interrupted again, “You two can’t kill each other! Not when I’ve already been roped into being an accomplice! You get yer asses north of the border, live happily ever after under a nice double-rainbow—‘cause you know what?”

“What?” Dean asked, playing along.

“Nazis don’t hang out in the Canadian wilderness! They’re not gonna chase you over the river and through the woods. Seriously, you guys! This could be the escape you were looking for all along! From day one!” Oddly enough, Charlie was brimming with excitement.  
  
Instead of seeing them as fugitives, her rose-colored glasses looked at their evading the law like a permanent vacation—but…come to think of it...she was kind of right. If they were run out of ‘Murica, the land of the free and the home of the neo-Nazi’s who wanted to Keep America White Again, they’d accomplished their job, right?  
  
Even if he and Cas were escaping for different reasons, it was an escape, nonetheless. And the escape was absolute: in a way Dean had no concept of...until now.  
  
Charlie was a bit more hesitant when she inquired, “Hey...what’s going on? This isn’t the couple I left a few days ago…”

Dean could’ve blurted out how Cas blamed him for everything. How he fuckin’ foolishly found Dean incompetent, that his disappointment in Dean’s performance was only rivaled by how pissed off he was from Dean putting them in this situation—but that wasn’t going to fix any of their problems.  
  
He wouldn’t diffuse his boyfriend that way, only rewire him to explode all over again. It was friggin pointless, especially because Charlie was right—this was their chance to escape _everything_.  
  
Who the hell knew if they would end up escaping one another in the end, huh?

“It’s...stress,” he lied, feeling Cas’ eyes lingering on him. “Has the FBI narrowed it down based on missing persons? Or is the ID a complete John Doe?”

“Last I knew, they were beginning an autopsy on what they’ve assembled and, if they don’t get any hits on the science front, they may release a sketch to the press for tips. I’ll stay on it, let you know what I hear. But you better scoot your booties.” Real concern was woven through her words, “They’re gonna connect this guy with his known associates—it’s just a matter of time. That, plus all your Nazi deliveries? They’re gonna be the ones who talk: there’s no honor among thieves.” She sighed what Dean knew damn well was the truth: “Those dickwads couldn’t kill you, so you better believe they’re gonna sell you out. And they’re not gonna shut up until someone listens.”

“You’re right, and who says the listening ear is gonna be within the investigation? Could be press—that’s where it all could catch fire,” Dean realized, concentrating so wholly on the dead Nazi, he forgot about the ones still breathing. “Shit. This wasn’t supposed to happen—”

“All you can do is play it cool and do your thing,” she assured him and (like he needed the reminder anymore than he needed another hole in the head) added, “I don’t want you to make a ton of SOS calls—it’ll look bad if they get a warrant for your phone. I’ll fill Sam in, see if there’s anything we can do from our side to make things go smoother.”  
  
Kindness. That was the word that described Charlie’s warm encouragement when she ordered: “Focus on the road. Drive safe. Remind Cas you love him.”

Dean pursed his lips to choke down any threatening word-vomit, instead releasing a shaky breath. “Kay. Talk soon, Char. Thanks again.”

When he hung up, Cas ruefully muttered, “They’re called ‘loose ends’ for a reason.”

“You mean vital signs? Want me to turn around? So you can—what—go tip-toe into prison and knock them off, or some shit?” he groused, tightening his grip on the steering wheel once more.

With a roll of his shoulders, Cas indicated, “That’s a nice thought,” before the shallow question, “You really think this will work?”

“What part?” He hadn’t meant to get wound up, but really—when had Dean gotten the chance to cool the fuck off?  
  
Once he began, he couldn’t stop rattling off, “Outsmarting the FBI? Staying one step ahead of a looming nation-wide manhunt? Getting away with murder? Crossing the border? Living life as fugitives? Hell, living in Canada? Living _ together_? Trying to friggin _ stay _ together? You not murdering _ me_? Tell me: what part of it are you questioning _will work_, Cas? Huh?”  
  
The words hung in the air like a razor-sharp dare.

Dean finally broke. He began laughing like a _ lunatic_. And he couldn’t stop.  
  
Between fits of giggles, he tried to spit out the words, “Oh, man! Who knows if a-any of it’ll work!” and nearly choked on his own madness. “Hah! Who the fuck knows what part we’ll even r-reach!”

The humor of Castiel, a literal god’s-honest killer, genuinely terrified at the revelation that Dean had lost his mind wasn’t lost on him. Oh—_that_ was _fucking gold_. It almost made the bullshit worthwhile!

Cas gaped like a fish before doing the only thing he could: turning back to the radio and adding a dash of noise to drown out Dean’s insane laughter, and folded his hands in his lap as to inch away from the blast radius.

By now? Dean didn’t give a flying fuck. Nothing could phase him—he had a mapped his course, catering to their story, and anyone tracking them. They’d be in Detroit by this evening, and hopefully: crossing the border tomorrow.

\-------------------------------

After the Pennsylvania Turnpike, Dean implemented another strategy in the mountain of growing fail-safes.

He took adjacent roads, stopped at gas stations in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, making their route untraceable. Their _ route_. So no one would be able to follow them along the way.

But once they rolled up into Detroit? He needed to slap them back on the map and make some noise.

Hide out in plain sight to make damn sure no one looked, like they were ‘hiding’ nothin’ at all. Dean wanted them visible _after_ the fact, so their disappearance didn’t arise until they were, you know, actually gone. For now, Dean was forced to make it look like just another day in the life.  
  
God...it was anything but. He’d kill to be locked in some cute banter with Cas, complaining about an uncoming flight, maybe griping about how he didn’t have enough hours in the day to fight Nazis, spend all-nighters with awesome marathon sex _ and _ worry about ‘counting carbs’ because Cas loved to give him hell about his breakfast meals.  
  
That wasn’t on the docket these days.  
  
It seemed he had all the time in the world, all the airspace with no conversations, and one, singular task to accomplish.

Tonight, a piece of their escape involved planting a pivotal piece of evidence along the trail. It was crucial their mugs showed up on camera.

It wasn’t for him and Cas alone: this one was for Charlie, just in case she was found out. It offered her an escape. A sighting she could call in, capturing the fugitives on tape, being seen in Detroit right before crossing the bridge. A piece of surveillance tucked away for investigators if they did their digging.  
  
Perhaps the lack of any conversation made Dean’s brain blow up into overdrive. Maybe he needed control over everything he could get his grabby little paw on, because half his life was falling apart. Maybe it was the bottom line of his job—protecting Cas.  
  
And maybe they were fearing the worst for no reason. Maybe Cas would never come up as a POI. And if the FBI was looking around, everyone could confirm—surveillance included—he and Cas were…doing something, per usual, and here it was.

“Ah-hah—” Dean saw their tactical escape—right then—in flashing lights.

Cas cautiously eyed him (still fearful he’d lost his goddamn mind for good and, yeah, he really had) as they pulled up in front of the valet parking sign. He caught a glimpse of the name and seemed to relax, but when Dean continued driving and took the second turn, he jerked up in confusion. “Dean…what are we doing?”

“Getting a room at the crappy hotel next door,” he explained, circling the lot, scanning around for a spot in the shadows, out of view. “_Then _ we’re going out to the casino. We’ll pretend to drink, gamble, have a grand old time—like we used to. Make sure it’s all on the record.”

“Let me get this right…” Cas squinted at him, paraphrasing, “Instead of crossing the border—the border that is less than fifteen minutes away from us—you’d rather we stay to play dress up and risk the feds closing in?”

Exasperated and loathe to repeat himself, Dean had to fight to stay calm. “Okay. We all know we’re guilty—but just trust me on this one—we gotta pretend, at least a little bit, like you’re _ not _ a stone-cold murderer. We can’t wrap up the investigation with a nice, neat bow, then serve it up on a silver platter for detectives. This is the difference between you being a person of interest and the number one suspect-turned fugitive with Mounties on his ass in the wild, okay?”

“Fine. We can…pretend.” He finally acquiesced.

“_Thank God—_” Dean hadn’t meant the words to be quite so…powerful (as he ripped the keys from the ignition, nearly taking half the car out the door with him)—but whatever! “All right! We’re gonna check in, put on our nice, undercover outfits and light up Greektown!”

Cas grabbed his duffle bag and followed Dean to the motel.  
  
Maybe he’d finally learned his lesson of the day: his complaining would get him nowhere, he was in a situation he couldn’t control—Dean had taken over, he was balancing the line between being a professional and being certified batshit crazy, and...that was that.  
  
Hopefully, Cas would keep a close eye on that line...Dean may be an excellent tight-rope walker, but the finer it narrowed, well...Cas may be the lethal kind of dangerous, but when it came to Dean’s variety? He hadn’t seen _ nothin’ _ yet.


	9. Chapter Eight

All their time spent hiding from the press and Nazis forced Dean and Cas to carry three different outfits that took them—well, out of the box. They had Casual-Undercover, Ri-fuckin’-diculous-Undercover and Black-Tie-Uncover.

Tonight, they donned the last of those. If they were going to burn through the casino, enough to be noticed—especially as _ themselves _ while in _ disguises—_they needed to implement a certain balanced amount of boldness. Dean felt confident he’d be able to walk the line between flashy and anonymous: he‘d been assigned to work for the same kind of people, he knew what to look out for.

As they got ready for the evening, with the tensions sky-high, Dean took a calculated risk.

If he didn’t, he may end up shooting himself in the head before the night was over.

He’d grabbed a fifth of liquor to sip while they flipped through the news for updates, ironed their clothes and touched base with their guardian angels. Dean shouldn’t have been surprised when Cas snatched away the bottle and began to full-out chug.

When he did it—his expression fixed in a rebellious, petty glower—oh, it was _on_!

Very suddenly, it turned into a petulant game of stealing the bottle away from each other, like every drop was liquid gold, neither willing to give an inch.

It was around that time when Sam had called.

Dean hissed from the liquor’s burn—Cas reflexively stealing the booze away—but the feud wasn’t verbal: he couldn’t yell, only react—it was all part of their unspoken rules and the ensuring goddamn silent treatment. “Yesh—oh, hey, Sam! What’s up! Putting you on speaker—” and when he did, he launched himself like motherfucking bird of prey—diving out to snatch back the bottle.

“Hey guys—what was that noise?” Sam was the picture of innocence, right as Dean collided—a crash-bam-_thud—_against the corner of a wall. “…Hello?”

Barely noticing the collision, Dean vacuum-sealed his mouth around the bottle mouth like a goddamn sippy-cup, only breaking away when it was drained—victory was his! Even though he’d nailed his entire left side and he was prone, bruised, friggin crippled on the ground, as a mildly entertained Cas looked down on him. He had to say…he didn’t mind this view…Oh, wait—his brother was talking _ and _ he was pissed off at Cas!

Dean perked up, getting caught in their stupid cat-and-mouse BS (it was nice while it lasted, oh, hey, he was already buzzed as hell—when did that happen?) popping up on his haunches. “Hey, little bro! How’s it hanging?”

“….” Yeah, he could _see_ the bitch-face through the phone. “How’s it hanging? Your world is imploding, it’s crashing down around you, and you ask ‘how’s it hanging?’”

He and Cas exchanged glances and shrugs, before he moved to pull his freshly-pressed shirt from the ironing board. “What do you want out of me? Sobbing? Yanking out my hair? Trust me, dude, I’m on the edge. Don’t be what pushes me over. So…” he pulled off his road trip-dirty shirt, and began buttoning up the nice one, “Any updates?”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean that. I guess…” Sam sucked in a breath, “I guess I feel guilty. For getting you involved. If it hadn’t been for me—”

“Let’s skip this part, okay? Don’t apologize for shit. Can you give me any heads up I might need in the meantime?”

Dean didn’t miss the way Cas’ somewhat heavy eyes took time to coast over his skin—to feed a hunger pang nestled in him, that he wouldn’t give voice to yet. Still, it felt nice to be wanted—even if the little fucker wouldn’t say it aloud…

“There was a snitch.”

Woah. That derailed _everything_ sexy.

Cas thought so too, honing in on the phone and demanding, “What do you mean: a snitch?”

“Before the Feds could even make an identification, when the news hit the stands one of the guys you hog-tied and gift-wrapped for Charlie; he talked.” Sam mournfully announced, “From what I’m putting together, the dead guy was his cousin. They haven’t made it official yet, but they share enough DNA markers it’s a strong possibility, and—”

“When asked, they gave up Cas.” Dean filled in the blanks, grinding his jaw.

“Basically.” Sam was quick to assure, “The FBI think it’s bullshit. As of right now. Because, of course, if you can blame anyone for your problems in a polarized political environment—why _wouldn’t _you go after Cas? Especially after his press conference stunt…”

“That’ll never stop biting us in the ass—!” Dean whispered, full of ire.

“Still, the agents aren’t out to damage Cas’ reputation. This doesn‘t have a shot of leaking.” Sam spoke louder, to be heard over the bickering, “As a neo-Nazi, thank the Lord, they’re not considered a ‘credible’ witness. Which means any questioning of Cas, they’ll be doing it privately, no one will get wind of it—there won’t be a media circus. But be ready.”

“Because of the snitch,” Cas repeated and reached for the phone, “We’re making me interesting, instead of suspicious, Sam—goodbye!” and punched the ‘off.’

“Not ‘interesting person.’” Dean groaned out, “_Person_ of _ interest_. Dammit, Cas. I wanted to talk to him—”

“There’s no time.” He gestured to the clock, “It’s getting late, I want to ride out this buzz and possibly find more booze, if I can—and you need to do your job.”

“My _job_?” Dean echoed, “I can’t tell if you’re discrediting us by labeling yourself as a job, if you’re still being bitchy with me, or—”

Cas grabbed a fistful of his tie and ordered, “Don’t. Think. Let’s just go.”

“Yes, sir.” Dean instinctually bowed his head, pulling on his jacket and—oh yeah, his cock was very, very into Cas’ assertion. God, it didn’t matter how pissed he was, the things Cas did to him would never change!

\-----------------------

When they made their entrance, Dean still had the sharp eye and the alertness he needed scope out the scene. Just barely.

It was a busy evening—the casino was packed—people were walking around the outside of the gaming floor, ducking, dodging and stumbling over one another. The foot traffic was body to body. Their shoes stuck to the floor from sugary spilled drinks and the clouded air felt humid with the heavy scent of smoke. Nothing like cigarettes and cigars to create some mood lighting, right?

With all the activity, it was both easy to blend in and (unfortunately) just as easy for someone else to hide.

Still, Dean had taken all the right precautions: popping them back onto the game board from thin air.

They were proudly in Detroit, but no one—not even the FBI—could’ve tracked their path here. He knew because of his ears on the inside. That also meant the enemy (hampered from birth with a pea-sized brain) would never dream of following the non-existent breadcrumbs.

Dean’s eyes flickered around to the array of cameras, to gauge their course of action. Security was tight, both human and machine, and knowing where to position them was the key when leaving their mark. Dean felt confident, plus—the warm and fuzzy vibes from the booze wasn’t bad either.  
  
Once he felt confident memorizing the layout, he casually asked, “So poker or blackjack—” but as he turned around…he realized Cas was gone—

Scratch that, after whirling around in a panic, ready to go on the offensive or keel over from a stroke, Dean found the asshat.  
  
Yep. He found Cas all right. He was at the goddamn bar doing shots!

How had he gotten over there?!

Dean fought to maintain a semblance of grace when all he wanted to do was stomp the entire way and punch his boyfriend in the shoulder. “Hey! What do you think yer doing?!”

When Cas turned mid-shot, the booze sloshed over the edge and a small drop ran down his chin. His eyes widened with alarm—not because he was caught—but because Dean had legitimate surprised him with the suddenness of his approach.

Wiping his mouth, Cas wondered, “Would you like a shot? Or perhaps a Long Island?”

“You’ve _got_ to be kidding me…” As the drink was scooted across the bar, Dean deadpanned, “You’re drinking a Long Island. Who are you?”

“Someone who needs mind-numbing assistance for their current circumstances, who’s not getting _shit_ from their significant other, and—”

“Woah, slow down there!” Dean grabbed his arm and ushered him away from the bar before something came out of his mouth they’d both regret. “Wonderful. Now your drunkass isn’t just a headache, you’re a liability, too!” He ran a hand through his hair, taking another look at the cameras and leading Cas’ swerving. “Fine. You know what? I’ll let you get plastered. See if I fucking care. But I need you to control your words and _gamble_, or else why the hell would we be in a casino?”

“To flee the country as fugitives,” Cas easily stated, and—motherfucker!—how hammered was he?!

“Dammit, Cas! Don’t say…things like that!” he growled under his breath, deciding they’d better start at the slot machines before working up to the tables with, you know, _ people_. As Cas began thumbing coins into the machine, Dean watched him, illuminated by the flashing lights, and begged, “Please tell me you can handle yourself.”

Cas fed in a twenty before slamming the button down, sipping his drink while the lively music played and he was up in cash. He didn’t bother making eye contact with Dean. “I’ve been ‘handling myself’ fine all my life. I’ve demonstrated to the public my life is boring and uneventful on my own—long before you came along.”

Okay, _that_ stung.

Maybe this was one of those situations where Dean couldn’t win?

“You’re right.” He cleared his throat, blankly gazing off at the floor. “Well. After we get on camera tonight and cross the border tomorrow, you can go on taking care of you. The consensus is obviously domestic terrorism stays domestic—you’ll leave the threats behind in the US.”

Seeing how Cas had firmly planted his rear for a minute...maybe that Long Island sounded good, after all…

Cas could take care of himself if he was sitting still and Dean made a short trip to the bar, right? God, tonight sucked.

\-------------------------

Once Cas’ attention finally wavered and he was on the move, Dean felt like the bodyguard he always played on TV.

Even before, when they were nothing more than a boss and a new hire, there was _something_ between them. At least a mutual respect, attraction, a whole lot of sexual tension in the air, something that made them something _more_.

Now, while Cas tapped on the table and one of the waitresses brazenly flirted with him (he was on a winning streak at the blackjack table) Dean stood by as a guard and nothing more.  
  
He felt like a friggin statute: hands folded, looking out into the crowd, while this chick hung off Cas, serving him drink after drink!

But what could he do?!

From the corner of his eye, Dean saw the woman go for it—trying to plant herself in Cas’ lap. Hell no!   
  
That _wasn’t_ gonna fly, no way, no how, it, uh, came down to a security issue!

Dean knew if he seized the woman’s arm, he’d be met with screams—the woman calling it an attack. Instead, he inserted himself between her and Cas, leaning close and informing her, “Hey, I bet a pretty gal like you has got lots of other marks to hit up tonight, huh? Why don’t you scurry off and get ‘im?”

Blatantly offended, she actually tried to talk _around_ Dean, talk _to_ Cas. “Are you gonna let your bulldog speak to me like that?”

Cas’ glare was fierce and, thankfully, it was directed at the waitress. “He’s no one’s bitch. I’d be careful choosing your words.”

That was enough to earn a flip of her hair, a scoff, and she took her grubby mitts with her when making the dramatic exit. A moment passed and Cas turned right back to the table, nodding to the dealer, “Hit me,” while Dean collected himself.

“Hey…” His hand came up to rest of Cas’ shoulder, instantly tensing under the sensation. Dean tried to relax him, coaxing him with, “Thanks for defending me.”

Another round, another bet went by, Dean awkwardly retracting his touch. Moments before he could withdrawal completely, Cas explained, “She was rude. A distraction. Nothing but a roadblock standing in the way of you executing your job.”

The way Cas said ‘job’ was laced with resentment and implication.

For a second, Dean thought The Scene they needed to secure may have been the waitress storming off. Except, the anger simmering underneath Cas’ surface was more dangerous than anything.  
  
Normally, Dean wouldn’t have been baited or dared poke the bear, but tonight, something was much, much different—

“I told you before: you’re not a job—”

“I suppose I’d be an utterly spectacular failure if I were. Seeing how you’ve not only kept ‘The Job’ from living his life and making his own choices, but decided to bend over for ‘The Job’, too. Not the smartest move, from an employer’s standpoint,” Cas mused, drumming his fingers across the felt of the table.

Oh.

Fuck no.

He _didn’t—_

“Oh, really?! How the hell could I know that ‘the job’ was a narcissistic sociopath with a creepy sex drive that’s cool getting his rocks off with KO’d Nazi bodies just laying around?!” Dean hissed under his breath, but that sure as hell got Cas’ attention.

Dean didn’t care, not for a second—he didn’t hold back—he kept on going, “Even now, I’m doing _everything_ for you, cleaning up mess after mess, putting you and your safety first! It’s never been because of ’a job!’ Who the fuck risks everything over a job? If I cared about an ’employers standpoint,’” he recited Cas back to him, finger quotes and all, “I would’ve quit long ago.”

Shooting up from his chair and turning to face Dean, head on, the table fell silent. “Maybe it’s not too late to be fired.”

“Joke’s on you, dumbass! I’m not going anywhere.” They stood chest-to-chest, Dean snarling, “You can play tough for anyone else and it may work. Not me. There’s nothing you can do that they haven’t tried already _because of you_. Everyone failed.”

That ripped straight down to Cas’ core: because it was a challenge, it itched under his skin and made him see red, he could never turn away from a thrown gauntlet. “Don’t tempt fate, Dean. Wasn’t it you who always wished to stay under the radar? What on Earth are you doing right now? Waving a red flag, making yourself a target?”

“Making a scene,” Dean pushed through clenched teeth. “Since yer not following directions. Makes me wonder if you give a shit anymore.”

That’s where Dean was.

Did Cas care?

About him, about them, about their future, where they were going—or if this really was it? A goodbye.

The rest of the world’s attention span had ran out. They’d returned to where they were, drunk on a night out, liquor, you know: life, as the waitress soothed everyone’s frayed nerves with drinks to lure them back to the blackjack table.  
  
Shots certainly worked well as bait.  
  
That didn’t effect he nor Cas. They remained in their own little world—it was the two of them, staring each other down. Thank God, they weren’t the center of attention any longer, but Dean…he needed to fade away.

From all of it.

“Doesn’t matter.” Dean suddenly shook his head, realizing…maybe he couldn’t do a goddamn thing “Keep playing. Enjoy yourself while you can. Remember, we have a timeline to keep.”

“Aa.” Like he was proving a point, Cas mused, “That detachment, those words—it seems currently that even if I wasn’t before: I _ am _ a job.”

Watching him, waiting for a tell or a clue to which way Castiel wanted this to play out—Dean gave him one better.

He gave him the truth: “I guess you’re right.”

“I’m too fucking busy trying to save you—it’s exhausting, I’m so goddamn tired...and pretending there’s any love here when you’re treating me like this would do me in.” When Cas barely flinched, he scoffed and finished, “For both our sake’s, right now you _need_ to be a job. You’ll thank me when you come out on the other side a free man.”

He tensed up, like he was about to put up a fight, but he never followed through. Thank fuck.

After all, how did Cas plan to argue with Dean’s emotions? He couldn’t go head-to-head and debunk the way he was feeling? Tell Dean he was wrong? He couldn’t—that was the whole point.

Slowly, Cas turned around and ventured back to his seat, Dean keeping his distance and watching from the outside.  
  
Cas rejoined the game, just like that.  
  
This time, Dean didn’t police him when he drank. He didn’t so much as wonder, let alone question, who he was speaking to. As long as there wasn’t a flash of metal (indicating a blade) or an abrupt hand diving into a pocket (reaching for a gun) he could do whatever the fuck he wanted.

He was a bodyguard tonight, nothing more.

It would be _too fucking much _to waste his time, thinking the night would take a turn for the better and they’d go back to something more.

\-----------------------

Castiel was running on empty in more ways than one.

It was ridiculous, allowing himself to fall in love with Dean the way he had, because it resulted in _all_ his emotions becoming recklessly heightened. Like his shock, his disappointment, his fear, his pettiness, the potential for heartbreak—everything rushed through him like a life-or-death choice when his neutral nature was usually so easy.

Caring about Dean’s well being felt more urgent than any other time his own life had been on the line.

How stupid. Castiel had no fear of death, no concerns about his ability to survive, but faced with a future where Dean wasn’t there beside him—the concept made him want to breakdown—

What was worse: Castiel knew he’d caused this.  
  
Dammit, he’d never taken credit for being morally upright, strong in his convictions or the ‘better man.’ He was ungodly worse at apologies, he’d never had to say he was sorry for anything. Of course, he wanted to fix things, he couldn’t imagine his world spinning without Dean, but…how did he get there?

Gathering his wits in the lobby made him realize, yes, he was very drunk.

Hm, Dean had reason to be upset. Being this intoxicated was very, very foolish of him!

Come to think of it, he may be upset Cas had wandered off in this state, too, without so much as a warning—  
  
…He _had_ forgotten to give Dean any notice, he’d decided to leave and simply done so.  
  
Still, getting some air, collecting his thoughts, it was _ pivotal_. This was a point in case! He’d was behaving recklessly and since he loved Dean more than his pride, he needed to figure a way out of this mess—see, this was progress Dean would be happy about...he'd have to tell him, and—

Oh, his phone was ringing…perhaps that was his boyfriend, ready to yell at him…

“Hello? Dean?”

“…No, sir. This is Agent Mills, with the FBI. I’m sorry it’s late, I had a quick question for you—” It was a woman, definitely not his boyfriend. “This is Mr. Krushnic, correct?”

Oh, wait—FBI? Oh…no. This wasn’t good.

“Yes, this is he, and it is _very_ late, don’t you have a bedtime, Agent Mills?”  
  
What. Why did he say that?

She actually laughed back, noting, “I’m an adult, I can choose my bedtime as I see fit. Is this a bad time?”

“No. Go ahead, how can I help you?” Why did he say _that_?

Castiel absolutely could have admitted he was under the influence, but now he’d all but begged the woman onward! As if he hadn’t made enough moronic choices tonight!

“I understand you’ve been experiencing harassment from white nationalist groups. Can you tell me how extreme those episodes have been?” Unsure if she was fishing, or if this was a precursor, she went on to ask, “Were there repeat offenders? Did you get into physical altercations? Your press conference was like—”

“I’ll never hear the end of that press conference!” Cas heaved a sigh, and took to pacing. “I apologize for my outburst, my boyfriend and I…we’ve had a significant fight. Our future is unsure. I’m having trouble processing things. But the neo-Nazis,” he huffed a dry laugh, “you see, my boyfriend is my bodyguard, I’ve avoided any and all attacks—because of him. …I can’t lose him, I love him—what do I do?”

Mills stammered on the other line, trying a few times to come up with a way to respond. “I-I think you should be telling him what you’re telling me. And this is…Mr. Winchester? Was he involved in any assaults with these men?”

“Yes, it’s Mr. Winchester, and I agree: I should tell him. But our communication skills leave much to be desired, although we are _quite_ fluent in our body language—this is the first argument we cannot solve with sex. We’re both headstrong, neither of us thinks we did anything wrong. And that’s the problem—we _ didn’t_. Our relationship is a victim of circumstance and I think, maybe, if I have another shot, I’ll have what it takes to—”

“I think you need water. A big, giant glass of water,” she interjected, and urged, “Just answer those two things for me: was Dean ever in a violent altercation on your behalf, or would you recognize these men because of the harassment? Unless it didn’t get to that level—”

“Oh, Dean would do anything for me—on my behalf. The amazing qualities about him are endless, he’s truly special, amazing and—”

“You know what, Mr. Krushnic?” Agent Mills curtly interrupted, “I’m going to let you go for tonight. If I have any further questions, I’ll reach out to you. Good luck, with your…domestic situation.”

“What do you propose I—Agent Mills…? Hello?” He blankly gaped at the phone, having been…hung up on?

Well. That didn’t go as planned. Still, Castiel supposed that even when he hadn’t planned on it—he didn’t incriminate himself as far as he knew?

Interesting. It felt nice to speak to someone. Part of a once-devastating weight had been lifted off his shoulders. Now that things were in perspective, a glass of water was the last thing Cas needed—he had to see his boyfriend.

\-----------------------

Dean’s wheels were spinning and he felt helpless, searching every square inch of the casino for Cas.

Leave it to Dean, he’d found a way to fuck up again! In their final day of being in danger, right before he’s able to see Cas to safety—even if it was to ultimately set him free—he’d either run away, been kidnapped, or friggin _killed_, right out from under his nose!

Fright was bubbling up in his stomach, and now the only place he could take it to was the street—

Zooming down the hallway, just as he shot out of the stairwell—

His heart skipped a beat.

There was Cas.

Standing in the middle of the lobby, obviously having caught sight of him and tilting his head to the side with a clear confusion.

Dean didn’t have the words as he closed in. He didn’t want to yell anymore, he was thankful to see Cas safe—that was all he wanted—

And when Cas reached out to him, stating, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he also wanted to kiss him.

But he didn’t. Dean had no idea where they were at. He knew their hands were joined, they were connected, and he liked that very much.

“Eh, I’ll be okay. Where did you go?”  
  
God, keeping the conversation light while unwinding from his cyclone-tizzy was a challenge, but it looked like Cas had other plans.

His focus gravitated towards the front desk—to a man who gestured towards Dean, Cas nodding, and now, Dean found himself completely out of the loop.

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t answer your question. I needed a moment. Oh, I also spoke with the FBI,” Cas shrugged it off—like that _wasn’t_ a huge fucking deal when he’d been loose-lipped all night, “They don’t suspect anything, we’re fine to continue with our evening,” and tugged him along.

“Wait…” Dean was wary, unsure if this meant Cas wanted to go back to the bar, finish drinking his weight in booze, toss out more cash on his hot, winning streak, or what. He was cautious, he didn’t want to wake the sleeping giant when he put together the words, “We’ve tidied up all our loose ends, if you want to head back. Unless you have other plans?”

“I do. Dean, I love you.” Cas’ voice was resolute. “We should get married.”

Initially, everything inside him was singing from the rooftops, fuckin’ celebrating to high Heavens, and that was it: Dean didn’t hesitate a second longer.  
  
He closed the distance between them and kissed Cas like he’d been dying for the last couple days. The rush of joy also worked to sober him up, he gained a bit more clarity, inquisitiveness and, yeah, wondering _where the actual hell_ this had come from.

“Cas…I’m thrilled. And, don’t get me wrong, I’m totally in, but…” he struggled around the words, “how did we go from break-up to...marriage?”

“The FBI Agent,” Cas answered.

Dean waited for more.

Except, there wasn’t any more of an explanation. What the hell was he missing?!

“Okay…” Dean blinked hard, hoping his world would shift back into focus, right now, he was seeing everything inside out, upside down and backwards. It was so confusing! “Well...that’s good. Thank you, FBI, I guess…?”

Every time Cas flashed that smile, the one that was warm, just for Dean, he felt the tinges of a blush on his cheeks. What he didn‘t see coming was Cas‘, “Excellent. I’ve already filled out the paperwork and paid the fee, and this gentleman will lead us to the ceremonial—”

“_Woah_! Buddy!”

What planet were they on!?  
  
Dean slammed them both to a halt, trying not to make _ another _ scene, whispering, “This wasn’t a romantic reunion and proposal? This is a ‘When in Vegas’ thing?!”

“We’re in Detroit,” Cas responded, puzzled. “Why _not_ marry now?”

When he opened his mouth…

Fine, Dean couldn’t come up with one good reason _not to._

Cas knew that, it was obvious by his smirk. As well as the words, “This could be our only chance. If worse comes to worse and we’re fugitives in Canada, we won’t be able to legally get married for fear of outing our location. Plus, if I were to take your last name, I’d no longer be associated with my past. My family. My so-called 'legacy.”

Imploring, “We can use our license if things get messy at the border. There are countless reasons this makes sense,” Cas flashed him baby blue puppy eyes. “In fact, the reasons we should be married far outweigh the reasons we’re not already.”

Yeah, all of it made perfect sense.

Too, too much logical sense.

But…Dean didn’t want to marry Cas because it was logical. Hell no, it wasn’t ‘logic’ that made him giddy, had him erasing every bad turn and harsh word spoken between them—especially since it propelled them on a crash-course for Happily Ever After.

“But Cas…” Dean _ needed to know_. “What’s your main reason, though? Really?”

Raising an eyebrow and quirking a knowing smile, Cas leaned forward, lips almost brushing against the shell of Dean’s his ear. “During the times where I’m behaving like an ass, I need you legally bound by my side until you forgive me. I refuse to move forward in a world without you.”

“So romantic,” he playfully countered, angling his head _just right _and capturing another breathless kiss. “I love you, too.”

“That’s what I said.”

Dean laughed boisterously, his future-husband on a mission—pulling away and dragging him to follow the man he’d already paid to wed them.

It was a fact: Dean never knew what to expect when he was with Cas, but tonight—he’d outdone himself.

Fuckin’ _crazy_, how much Cas could still one-up himself, time and time again.


	10. Chapter Nine

It wasn’t Elvis, it wasn’t Vegas, but it was close.

The guy who led them to the altar had given Dean another shot of whiskey to loosen up, make him more pliable—his rationale was probably cold feet didn’t pay the bill, right? Joke was on him for wasting the booze—he loved Cas, this was a dream come true!  
  
Everything from the fog-like smoke to his unsteady feet made it feel like one, too.

Dean certainly never planned to be standing here, watching Cas side-eye the priest, reading from a bible. Dean whispered—too loud, too harshly, “Are you even religious?” so obnoxiously that the reverend paused mid-verse.  
  
Oops.

Mouthing ‘sorry’ and nodding to continue, Cas squeezed their joined hands as he leaned forward, his quiet whispers were much more successful than Dean’s. “Yes, I am. Why else would he be wedding us? I had a very extensive list of choice to debate—I would’ve picked out a much more entertaining host if I wasn’t religious.”

Any and all of Dean’s attempts to taper down his volume failed miserable. In his defense, he was trying to help when he said, “Are you’re _ trying _ to go to Hell in a handbasket?! Unless ‘thou shall not ki—...kiss and tell and do... of…stuff. Commandment. _ Whatever_, fuck.”

That was enough to make the priest stop in his tracks, his jaw dropping.

Damn, did he love Cas, _and_ his shit-eating grin, when he shamelessly said, “God forgives. So long as one asks for forgiveness.” He glanced back towards the man in front of the altar, “Are we doing vows?”

“You tell me,” the priest deadpanned, unamused. “This is your sacred joining in front of The Lord for all eternity.”

Dean was positive the dude wanted to dump holy water on him. Or drown him in the Detroit river during an impromptu baptism to save his soul.

Yet Cas took it in stride, agreeing, “You’re right, we should get to decide, shouldn’t we? Dean, we’re doing vows—I’ll go first.” Before either of the men _who weren’t Cas _could stop him, he rolled his shoulders and cleared him throat, “Dean Winchester. In the time we’ve been together, we’ve gone through highs and lows, trials and tests that would break other couples. It would drive them to the brink of insanity, and we’ve been there—but we find our way back. Because you…have this undeniable strength. One I’ve been looking for my entire life.”

His smirk was wicked, flashing for a half-second, long enough to quip, “And not only your body, although I can appreciate that as well. It’s your strength of character. Your loyalty. Your love. I knew I could count on you before I had a good reason, back when it was only an instinct. Thankfully, I followed it and on a quest for answers—I found something much better.”  
  
“The company of someone who keeps me on my toes when the world is painfully predictable. A man who speaks his mind where others may show fear. Someone courageous, tenacious and stubborn enough to handle not only his burdens but mine...and I allowed it. The question of why, the mystery you added to my life, it’s changed me.“

“I don’t need to be in control anymore—I have trust. I have love. And when I have nothing, I can rely on your strength.” Holy shit—the shimmering blue seas of Cas’ eyes had never been more vibrant—Dean’s knees felt weak—maybe it was, like, the lighting in the room? “We’re heading into a new adventure together, starting from nothing, and I’m unafraid. I have you, now. And soon—I’ll have you always. I love you, Dean Winchester. And I’d be honored to be your husband.”

Woah, woah, Dean was getting choked up.

He sputtered out an avid, “Okay, I want that,” while wiping away a stray tear.

A weird silence fell through the room. All eyes were on him. And Dean—

“Oh, _oh_, vows—”

Dammit, he wasn’t ready! At least Cas had a head’s up about the marriage, having popped the question and shit! Dean was _reacting_, and in a perfect world, he would’ve been able to sit down, write it out, rehearse it, maybe get Sam’s opinion, or some shit…he had none of that!

“Castiel Krushnic...Novak…whatever you want me to call you tonight...”

That was a good beginning, right?!

Everyone was on the edge of their seats, hanging on his every word. Yesh, he’d never wielded so much power before!

“You’re bat-shit crazy. Like, a diagnosed psychopath.”

Cas mumbled, “This better be going somewhere good…”

“Normally, it would send me running in the other direction—”

“You’re digging yourself a hole, Dean…”

“But there’s so many other things about you that make me stay put. That make up for the flaws and it’s not just the money,” he paused, turning to the priest and blurting out, “That sounded bad, I’m not a prostitute, or anything! _ God_, you’re judging me so hard—sorry, anyway, Cas—”  
  
“What I’m trying to say,” Dean plowed ahead, even when Cas didn’t look quite convinced, “they’re not even flaws. Not really. You are who you are, without apology. You’re fearless, you grab life by the balls and it’s fucking _awesome_.”

“I-I wish I had more time to pick out the _right words_, to tell you how you inspire me. How the way you keep me guessing is a good thing. And how you coming into my life and turning shit upside down was the best mistake my brother ever made, and I love you with everything in me.” Dean could tell from everyone’s face, he was failing—horribly.

Except, Cas.

Cas was glowing, he embodied a kind of joy he’d usually stifle, and Dean preened in the brilliant light.

“You’re right—we’re about to take off on a new adventure. I know us well enough to know we’re gonna do some dumb shit. We’ll get ourselves into trouble, make a mess, and who knows _how_ we’ll get out of it. But we’re gonna cause trouble ‘til Death do Us Part, right? Cas, be my husband.”

The priest bit down on the words that lay on the tip of his tongue, replacing them with the line, “Do you have the rings?”

The dude who’d supplied Dean with booze hopped up and handed off two gorgeous wedding bands that made Dean’s eyes double.

“When the hell did you get these?!” he gaped at the obviously expensive golden ring in his palm.

“Twenty minutes ago,” Cas recalled. “Throwing together a wedding is easy. I don’t understand what all the fuss is about.”

“Now, take the rings!” The priest’s voice boomed over the top of theirs—like he had other places to be, better things to do?! “Exchange them, repeating, “With this ring, I thee wed—”

“Is _ that _ a religious thing? Or just something they do in the movies?” Dean stage-whispered again, snatching up Cas’ hand and sliding the ring on. With a head shake, and an equally fast ring on his finger, they were both smiling like idiots. “Good, I don’t wanna say ‘thee’—”

“Why are you even paying me?” the priest muttered, before announcing, “For the first time, I’d like to introduce Mr. Castiel and Dean Winchester-Krushnic-”

“Actually,” Cas perked up, “I’m taking his name. No Krushnic necessary.”

“Fine!” He threw his arms up, “Here are the Winchesters! Sign the paperwork, Fred, I need a damn cigarette—” As he stalked off, he shouted over his shoulder, “Kiss your husband! Amen!”

Dean’s heart was pounding double-time when he wrapped his arms around Cas and pulled them together. What began as a longing and loving, kiss dissipated into small, hungry ones. With a whole lot of tongue—  
  
They needed to bring this to a close, and soon.

“Can’t believe you’re actually taking my name. Thought you were bullshitting me,” Dean chuckled between quick pecks. “Wow. This is crazy.”

“As crazy as you think I am? Diagnoseably so?” he countered and pulled away to cup Dean’s cheeks. “I must be. For marrying someone as articulate as you. Then again, I believe it was only a matter of time before I put a ring on your finger.” That was a confession, Cas’ deep breath emphasized as much. “Only…our current situation sped up my timeline.”

“Do you regret it?” It was instinctive. A reflex.

“God, no.” Pride bloomed and spread thorough Cas’ demeanor, he laced his fingers through Dean’s and walked him over to ‘Fred.’ “Let’s sign our certificates, shall we?”

Fred had the paperwork ready as well as congratulatory shots. Three of them.

He slapped a pen atop the papers, distributed the liquor and cheered, “Mazel tov!”

Cas and Dean’s first taste of wedded bliss? Was cheap tequila. While they were tucked away in the corner of a Detroit casino. Now, they had to go back to the shitty downgrade of a motel next door to celebrate their marriage, before making their escape towards the border.

What. A. Night.  
  


\------------------------------

“Perhaps drinking…with authorities on our tail was…mm…extremely foolish…” Cas’ words were half-moans against Dean’s lips, unable to keep his hands to himself as they stumbled back to their motel room. “Fred was also _very_ persuasive.”

“How much do you wanna bet Fred’s persuasion came from a brown bag he was carryin’ around the hotel, lookin’ for chumps like you?”

“Ah! You believe I was tricked? On the contrary, you were tricked! You‘re right where I want you…well, not quite yet, but we‘re close…march!”

Giggling—oh, shit, Dean was seriously giggling?—he acknowledged, “While we ain’t as sharp as we usually are—we’re still a step ahead’a them. Though I wish I knew more about yer call…” 

When the door opened, he swung Cas inside and shut it by crowding him against it. “And who knows. Maybe we needed to get out of our heads, drunk, to make up.”

“This is true.” Cas unceremoniously grabbed his ass. “I dislike fighting with you. I’m not good at conflict resolution and you know that. We…need to avoid it in the future.”

“Yeah—” He was beaming when he said, “For the rest of our lives, huh?”

“God, yes—”

Something came over Cas, it didn’t matter how intoxicated he was, hiking Dean up and carrying him to their bed seemed like child’s play. From the moment Dean lost contact with the ground, he locked his legs around Cas’ waist, clutching around him and sending them toppling down together.

The rickety old mattress was already squeaking, it was only a matter of time before they made it screech, snapped it in half or received a noise complaint—but discretion was of the utmost importance.

Trashy, first-floor motels would have to do, and Dean found himself forgetting the scratchy (maybe-probably-definitely filthy) comforter, much too lost in Cas’ kiss.

“I’m enchanted by the ring on your finger—it‘s just the beginning,” Cas lead in, while tearing away Dean’s incognito clothing. “Starting a new life together, calling you mine—even if the circumstances are less than ideal—I’m excited.”

Dean half-groaned and half-gasped, “Dude, we really need to work on your drunk dirty-talk,” while lifting his hips, Cas peeling off his boxers.

Oh, Cas’ raised eyebrow…_that_ meant trouble. Especially because Dean was buck-ass naked and his new husband was only missing his dumb shirt. Maybe Dean should have waited it out. Not been a mouthy brat—but he couldn’t help it—the liquor both solved problems and (apparently) made them!

“Just kidding…” Dean tried with a halfhearted laugh, “Your dirty-talk is great, ‘least it’s better than my vows were—”

“You’ve excelled at pushing my buttons tonight, Dean,” Cas growled, and (thank fucking Christ) went back to pulling off his layers. “Is this your way of seeking punishment?”

In Dean’s mind, he wondered if Cas still resented him just a little about the situation they were in, but then again: he _had jus_t openly admitted his anticipation about their future. This was a game. The only question was—did Dean dare to play?

Cas was dangerous, there was no doubt about it. Yet…Cas would never hurt him, he’d fight for him, he’d know when to stop. Right? Maybe this was an exercise in trust.

Who the fuck was Dean kidding? His cock was pulsing, oozing, thinking about it.

Swallowing his nerves, Dean nodded, “Yeah. Maybe I-I’ve been asking for it…”

Cas’ eyes lit up—both surprised and absolutely thrilled.

“You’ll think twice next time you needlessly agitate me.” Arousal weighed heavy in his voice, he directed, “Turn around. On your hands and knees.”

“Oh, _dear God_—” His jaw dropped and those words kinda tumbled out on their own.

Quick to follow his command, Dean shuffled around until he was smack-dab in the middle of the bed. His limbs quivered in anticipation, and—shit, he felt winded from doing nothing besides his little flip-and-crawl! Talk about being left breathless—

When the mattress lurched, and Cas’ weight was gone, Dean was confused. Up until he heard the tell-tale rustling of clothes. The sound of a zipper from their travel bags answered the rest of his questions.

Hell yeah—they were both naked, ready to go, Cas had everything in position and…Dean waited.

The tension in his back and spine coiled, the longer time extended, the more he braced himself. This was torture!

Sneaking a peek over his shoulder yielded the biting commented, “_Forward_,” but Dean did catch Cas pacing silently. Watching him. Cas’ grin was painted a shade darker than mischievous, the sight had Dean’s cock so fucking hard—it _ hurt_.

The first strike came out of nowhere—Dean yelping loud enough to wake the entire floor.

The burning sting elicited a shock of adrenaline and Cas’ touch lingered, soothing along the surface where he’d landed it. Almost right away, Cas wound up for the second, but Dean was ready—he could muffle his shout into grunt.

The third—holy shit—nailing the same spot again, mixed a numbness in with the exciting pleasure and sting—Dean’s back arching when it zinged through him.

Cas had the element of surprise, having positioned himself at the bed’s edge and swinging across. But while he gave Dean a moment to breathe, all that changed when he joined him. Knowing Cas was settling in behind made Dean all kinds of perked up, fighting to hide exactly how desperate his was to continue with the game: shaking his ass like bait.

Fingertips traced the raised skin of his cheek, fascinated, lust amplifying when Cas said, “Three down, seven to go.”

The next open-palm changed directions to his other cheek—eagerly reddening once pristine and freckled skin. Cas was determined to leave his mark, consecutively spanking Dean three times, back-to-back.

When he aimed lower, half his hand covering the top of Dean’s thigh, the other hand his ass? Dean couldn’t hold it together.

He lost himself—his goddamn mind—in the sensation. Dean was high above them in the clouds and never wanted to come down. The heady world of slow-motion was a trip, Dean was pulled into a zone he’d never visited. Yeah, he heard the sound of skin on skin—he felt impact instead of pain—he couldn’t accurately describe it. What he _did_ know was that he was two second away from blowing his load—

And that’s when he spiraled back down to his body, demanding, “Why did you stop, Cas?— _Fuck—_”

Both of them were panting, Cas’ hands circling and caressing the globes of Dean’s rear, responding in reverie, “You’ve completed your punishment. Stunningly, I may add.” Hot breath puffed between his cheeks, Cas’, “You will not cum until we’re one and I allow it,” had him oozing precum, and when he flicked a tongue over Dean’s hole—

He bit his lip until he tasted blood to stop from thrashing. Cas had done a number on him tonight, and—hearing the top popping from the lube bottle—meant he wasn’t finished by a long shot.

“You’ve got no idea how bad I need your cock.” Dean wasn’t above begging, especially when he felt the tip circling his opening. He knew if he took the initiative to sit back and swallow him down, Cas would tease him more and Dean honestly _couldn’t take it._ He’d use his words tonight: “Wanna cum with you, baby—”

“Yeah?” Cas asked in rapture, beginning to inch inside beyond his tight rim. Taking the time to linger halfway, only to pull all the way out and slide half-in, he continued to _ torture Dean _ with, “What else do you want?”

Two seconds away from blurting ‘not dying of sexual frustration tonight?’ Dean’s thoughts vanished when Cas finally slammed inside him.

When Cas was balls deep, Dean always happily took a moment to adjust to the stretch, but tonight once they were flush—there was the added tingle of his bruised and tender ass. Once Cas experimentally began rolling his hips, when he began sighing happily and setting his tempo—Dean realized every slap of their skin, each time their bodies slammed together reignited the hand-prints.

“Tell me, Dean: what do you want?” Cas asked again, accenting his question with sharp, violent thrust, while coaxing up and down Dean’s flank.

Dean‘s honest answer, “W-want you to fuck me like I’m yours. Want you to cum inside me,” was thoughtless, and for that reason—

He was worried about Cas’ reaction—Dean could’ve baited his devilish side, the one that always did the exact opposite of what Dean wanted—or worse, he’d give him hell!  
  
Before he could think too hard, the carnal magic between them and mind-blowing sensation returned—Dean’s feet were swept away and he was floating towards cloud nine. God, he was getting closer by the second, he prayed he wasn’t the only one, he didn’t want to disappoint Cas.

“We’re each others—” A switch flipped and there was something sweet in Cas’ voice. With each brushing and tender caress, the sweet timbre of his words became an urgent need to know what _he wanted_.   
  
Hell, the main reason Dean was so close to tumbling over the cliff was because Cas was fucking him for the sole purpose of giving _Dean_ pleasure. In a fierce, loving and near-brutal Cas-like way. It was in his question when he implored, “Are you sure?” cracking around the edges.

“God, yes. _Please_, Cas, tell me I can cum,” Dean begged, desperately looking back over his shoulder. “I’ve been on the edge so long, I’m gonna lose it.” He hated choking out his words—but they told the cold, hard truth.

The heat of Cas‘ body surrounded him when he folded over Dean, hungrily kissing his back. “Yes, cum with me. _Now_—”

All the spinning, the build-up, the highs got higher and Dean gushed out, “Goddammit, I love you,” when he crashed down to his elbows, arms giving out from overdue and overwhelming pleasure.

After he knocked away a pillow bent on suffocating him, Dean had no problem letting his useless body be...useless.  
  
Until that same pillow flopped back and he chucked it off the bed completely. Dammit, he _would_ soak up every moment of this _beautiful_ orgasm, it was Dean’s top-priority! He had a lot to live for and he sure as shit couldn’t leave Cas alone after all they’d been through—if he’d lived after what felt like millions of assassination attempts; death by bedding didn’t look good.

Always the ninja, Cas managed to swing them both around until they were comfortably tangled together, holding each other. Right here, Dean felt more alive than ever...liquid pleasure pumped through him—through his entire body—from head to toe.  
  
So many things made tonight special...

For one, the wet slide between Dean’s legs wasn’t just lube. He couldn’t count the ‘almosts’ the, ‘what-ifs’ between battles when no blood had been drawn. Yet, much like the first time: if they dared to take that step, no way in hell either of them could backtrack. And there was no way in hell Dean (for that matter, no way the contract hadn’t specified) was risking Cas’ health.  
  
Except, how could they stop when they were literally less than miles from freedom? When Cas’ doctor was so sick of seeing Dean’s face and listening to him complain, Cas had begun paying him overtime for both his silence and hours.  
  
After all the needles and pokes to confirm he was solid, Dean shrugged off Cas’ attempt to clean up before he could stand, saying they’d leave it for the morning. A small smile told him (while exhausted and too lazy to do it anyway) it was a good call.

Two: they were _ married_.

Three was an amazing surprise, that maybe shouldn’t have surprised them. For both, the high-risk ‘trust exercise’ kink had been unearthed and they were figuring it out as they went. Both of them knew on a bone-deep level, what Cas was capable of—whether in actions, thoughts, and his unpredictability of acting on those thoughts.  
  
Yeah, it may have been risky to jump into while they were drunk...but again, once the door was cracked—it was doomed to give way. Dean knew the ‘what ifs’ were limitless (hell, Cas didn’t have the alarms to signal him in regards to ‘how far’—that alone would make your average person run) but that was the fun part.   
  
The part that already tempted Dean into asking for seconds...  
  
There was a different kind of intoxication giving himself over willingly and gladly. Allowing Cas to do his worst while he was helpless and vulnerable—it sounded crazy, but it worked because of the trust they’d built.  
  
On paper, it should never have worked to begin with. Their personalities, business relation or otherwise, had all the makings of a disaster. Instead, both he and Cas grabbed hold of that blueprint and pulled—ripping the sheet apart and creating something beautiful instead.  
  
At first glance, it may look like Cas lacked empathy. Maybe the cords surrounding his heart were severed, making him unable to connect with others. Although...Dean was connecting with him just fine—and very thoroughly—sweat still clung to their bodies, his nose followed the crook of Cas’ neck and his lips indulged, tasting the salt.  
  
First impressions were deceiving, Dean had been a victim of the tried and true phrase, but luckily—he’d figured things out pretty fast.  
  
Nothing was missing, nothing was inherently ‘wrong,’ it was Cas’ brain that ran on a different track than others, he was ...unconventional, in effect. Sure, sometimes Dean bitched and moaned, likening him Ted Bundy, but he knew Cas still _ felt_. It was the emotional processing where things got screwy.  
  
What set Cas apart—was the rare (startling) ability to isolate, cut off all other processes when needed (whether it was fear, sadness, grief, and similarly; hope, excitement, elation) without compartmentalizing. So, no: Cas didn’t shove it aside for later, he just didn’t feel it, at all. He functioned with his brain, and that was that.  
  
And Cas, as an individual, was a smart-ass with a wicked, dark sense of humor and Dean, counting all his overtime, had logged the hours. He’d finally caught enough moments where he wasn’t ‘A Beautiful Mind’ to know Cas’ ‘humanity’ wasn’t a fluke. There was much more to him. For as candid as his previous sociopath ‘claimed,’ for as many hissy fits as he threw, he _ had _ a complexity about him.  
  
When Dean thought he’d picked up nuances, he second guessed them. Had thrown them out. Thought he was imagining them. Little did he know, he’d been collecting pieces along the way. Following the breadcrumbs home.  
  
Within Cas’ paradox, there was one consistency—insuring Dean’s well-being.  
  
He’d complain a half-second _ after _ he knew there weren't any injuries sustained in a fight. He’d nit-pick at Dean’s choice in accommodations once they were somewhere safe.  
  
Dean took care of the big picture, he always had (that was his job) but Cas had covertly taken care of Dean.  
  
Maybe he wouldn’t have second-guessed shit (or Cas’ action) so much if he’d figured that out sooner. Well—he always knew, but never acknowledge it....maybe that’s why this struck a home run?  
  
Under any conditions, in a multitudes of ways, Dean could put himself in Cas’ hands, not knowing his plans but believing in him. Cas (by his own admission) felt relief from putting away his mask in front of another.  
  
Never, once, had Dean been under the illusion Cas was anyone else besides himself. For better or worse, that was the person he fell for, and Cas had never pretended “to be a better man” for his sake. Even when Dean couldn’t understand or imagine his ‘how’ or ‘why’ those parts didn’t matter in the equation.  
  
Four—they were fucking. Married!

And five—holdonaminute—Dean just ...realized. Like, just-the-fuck-now, realized that this, _ tonight_, was the first time he’d told Cas he loved him. They never said those words, and they were friggin married!   
  
Was this…a thing? Were there people who had this happen? Did they need to talk about it?

“Are you okay?” Cas wondered, taking the moment where Dean’s stupid had drawn him away from Cas’ neck to steal a kiss of his own. When there was no immediate response, Cas went on to say, “You were amazing tonight. There’s no other word for it.”

“Heh, you were pretty awesome, yourself,” he nodded back, uncertain of his next move, he didn’t want to rock the boat. What if he was worried over nothing? “Tomorrow‘s the big day: we cross the border…and our new life begins. Pretty wild…”

What the hell was he doing? He sounded like a jackass! Even the words felt forced...

Cas called him out on it. “I’m unsure if ‘wild’ is the word I’d use, but yes. It will be a big day. I suppose we should get some sleep, prepare for your expected ‘wildness.’ Do you wish to do shifts?”

Oh fucking hell, if they did shifts (like they were supposed to do, if they were remotely responsible) this question would dig at him, it would eat Dean alive!

“Whydon’twesayIloveyou?” he fumbled out all at once.

“Oh. So that’s what’s on your mind.”   
  
It felt like an eternity as Dean waited for Cas to come up with a response. The entire time, his expectation never changed: whatever came out of his mouth would (obviously) be the worst answer imaginable. Dean was bracing himself for—   
  
“I suppose we don’t say it because it’s presumed. Why else would we be together? For what other reason would we make a commitment, like we did? Why else would I have placed all my trust and my life in your hands so wholly in the first place?”

“You and I both know you’re perfectly capable of taking care of yourself,” Dean pointed out, unwilling to jump to his own conclusion without all the facts.  
  
But why _ wouldn’t _ he want to believe?

Cas laughed and shook his head. “There are other kinds of ways to live, Dean—what I meant is you’ve saved me from an existence behind bars. That would’ve been a much crueler end to my life than a bullet. You’ve worked tirelessly, ambitiously and efficiently to protect me, you’re invaluable and I’ve never second-guessed your choices. …Disregard what I said during our fight, during _any_ of our fights, because you’re the reason I’ve made it this far.”  
  
“You’re the reason for many things. Like discovering life isn’t about survival, alone—but thriving.” Cas always played it so cool in all the moments Dean wanted to see him rattled, to get under his skin—but maybe it was envy? Maybe Dean wanted his calm, his poise. “Under your watch, I’ve been able to attain that. Now, we’ll have the chance to thrive, to flourish, together.”

While he had poked at the question, Dean never felt he was given a real answer. Finished with the vagueness, knowing tomorrow there weren’t any guarantees (since he knew damn well they could pick a fight with each other) he pressed the question: “When did you start, uh, _assuming_ we were coo-coo for each other?”

“I can’t answer that.”

Wow, for how fired up Dean had gotten, that was a letdown.

But before Dean could show any visual rejection (he was too damn tired to pretend!) Cas surprised him—

“I was always fond of you. From the stories Sam would tell, to the in-depth look I received when he pitched me the idea. From the moment I laid eyes on you…my fondness continued to grow and it’s never stopped.” In a trance of nostalgia, Cas recalled, “To be honest, when I lured you into my bed and told you I was curious about compatibility, if there was something more there—I already knew there was for me—at the very least, I felt it. Maybe it wasn’t as, well, _ unknown _ as I’d led you to believe. Perhaps I was trying to get you to feel it, to know what I knew, as well.”

“Well, shit, Cas. I already did. Why do you think I was all flustered and demanding what was going on?” Dean’s smile was a mile wide as he rolled on top of him. “’m glad we talked about this. I thought it was later…a lot later. You never stop with the surprises, you know?”

Tilting his chin and smiling back, he mused, “Surprised that a cold-blooded, psycho murderer wanted to be with you with the overtures of romance?”

“Hey, we’re forgetting about all the things we fought about, remember! Besides…” Dean couldn’t rip his eyes from that dramatic pout on Cas’ face—it was adorable! “I wanna make a request.”

Warily, Cas said, “I’m listening, but make no promises.”

“I want to be able to say it. To be able to hear it.” His confidence grew in the perfection of tonight’s afterglow. “Unless you’ve got a reason you don’t want to?”

“I believed you were the one avoiding it.” Cas reached out and cupped Dean’s face. “I’d be happy to. I love you, Dean Winchester. I have no qualms telling you whenever it’s appropriate. Or better yet; _inappropriate_.”

Jesus, Dean was over the moon, nothing could measure up. The best part was this happiness wasn’t a one-and-done, this was something he got to keep—holy fuck, he could thumb the ring on his finger to remind him:_ he got to keep this man_.  
  
Maybe his world just flipped around again? But the one thing he knew, dizzy or not, upside down or inside out—he’d never get tired of those words. He grabbed Cas’ arm and peppered kisses along the inside of his wrist, against his palm and sighed out in joy.

“I love you, too, Castiel Winchester. I full-well expect and look forward to _everything_ inappropriate with you,” Dean cooed the second-half to keep spirits high so his sappy heart wouldn’t weigh him down, his body already buckling under the weight of his bursting adoration.

Castiel chuckled, “Those would have made for _ excellent _ wedding vows.”

“Sure would’ve, huh?” Wistfully, he decided to throw out the idea, “I’ll write a better speech when we have another go with friends and family later down the road. For now, I’m just glad we’ve got each other.”

“All these romantic, well-spoken sentiments, and at the time the best you could come up with was—”

“Oh, zip it! I’ll take first shift, dick!”

“I’ll allow it. But for your sake: you should take notes while you’re on a roll, and don’t needlessly disturb us, you can use your phone. You have a very limited supply of self-expression and while your vocabulary is stil—”

“Why did I marry you?”

“…This the proper time to say I love you, correct?”

“Goodnight, Cas!”


	11. Chapter Ten

When Dean awoke, he realized very suddenly that he’d never taken a shift—that he’d just passed out and slept through the night. He swore to himself he’d never do that again!

Even though his body went rigid—his instant-reaction to the fear—he soon realized that Cas was underneath him. Breathing. Heart beating a lazy rhythm. Still very much safe and where he’d left him.

Phew!

Still, the threats had multiplied...wasn’t just the fuckin’ terrorists, skinheads and the Aryan Brotherhood on their trail, Dean could very well have missed the pitter-patter of a SWAT team surround the friggin building, or something.

Yet, all he heard was Cas’ beating heart and with the rising sun, the day had finally arrived…they were about to be home free.

Canada wasn’t only an escape from authorities, it was an escape from the constant threat of death surrounding them. Sure, Neo Nazi and the KKK were everywhere, but White Nationalism and their explosion of hate crimes were stirring because of their deteriorating political climate, here, in the US.  
  
Any Canadian dicks didn’t have a vendetta against Cas—whatever system they used to location them back home would be hard to implement the further North they went.

Freedom. The word meant so many things, and all of them were uplifting, new beginnings.

No more running. Being together without these jackasses as constant fixtures surrounding them. Damn.

Maybe getting married was the best idea Dean had agreed to. The added bonus being Cas would hardly need his services anymore once they landed somewhere! If he was useless as a bodyguard, Dean needed some other reason to keep the guy around—a ring worked wonders. 

God, he was smiling like an idiot. In the middle of this mess, Dean was _ smiling_. That’s what people probably meant when they said love conquered all, it was pretty awesome.

He decided to soak in the moment and closed his eyes, counting the steady rhythm of Cas’ heart. Dean knew there was no way he’d drift off again, but that didn’t mean he had to wake his counterpart yet. Laying here, relaxing, it was as good as sleeping for the little he did. He’d take any reprieve before their ruse.

The one the rest of their lives depended on. Dean had to play it right, he had to implement the perfect plan—devise fool-proof characters to get them over that border! And hope Cas could play the part…but Dean had faith.

Cas had fooled everyone so far, it wasn’t luck that had gotten him to this point, some skills had to be involved, and—

Oh.

It wasn’t Cas’ flickering eyelids, jumping heartbeat or racing breath that tipped Dean off he was awake, it was his gliding hands...stroking over Dean’s chest, his stomach, and grabbing his ass. While he yipped, Cas’ chuckle was deep, drawing him into a lingering, good-morning kiss. Never relinquishing his firm handfuls.

“Hey,” Dean greeted, “How’s my hubby. Ready for a big day?”

“Not yet…”

Snickering, Dean wondered aloud, “Is that so? Whose making decisions around here these days?” and was answered by Cas rolling on top of him. He didn’t mind _that_ whatsoever. Still, the reminder of, “We’re kinda on a schedule,” needed saying.

“I understand.” Sure, Cas said the words, but the look in his eyes told Dean he didn’t give a shit. 

Instead, he ducked down and nibbled his collarbone, his lips and teeth covering and reigniting all the bruising and marks he’d left last night. He did so very, very deliberately, leaving Dean breathless and shaking from the shockwave, his body trembling.

“I’ve never been so belligerent…” It was like Cas was thinking aloud, which made Dean cock his head to the side. “No, not just drunk. I’ve been much more intoxicated in my life. I mean with you—” His fingertips swept over the length of Dean’s neck. “It’s like you were mauled by a bear. Like if I didn’t leave my mark on you, the marriage wouldn’t take.”

Muffling an unrefined snort, Dean snickered. “Oh, I’ve got the paperwork to show _it took_. And I’m pretty damn positive my limp’ll show the _honeymoon took,_ too.” Dean feigned a dramatic gulp. “Do I even wanna see the damage?”

“Hmm,” Cas stuck out his bottom lip in thought. “There’s no doubt you’d be impressed…”

“Oh God. Well—” He leaned up to smack a playful kiss on Cas’ nose. “It’ll help us cross at the border. Gaudy proof we’re in love and surprising family with our marriage.”

“Is that what we’re going with?” Cas raised an eyebrow, pecking him back. “What family do we have in Canada? And I resent being accused of garishness.”

This time it was Dean who dove forward, nipping his earlobe before he collapsed flat on his back. “Sam. Just ‘cause we know everything about him, we can _answer_ anything about him. If worst comes to worse, if they find a reason to separate us, we just tell the truth. Minus the murder part. Say Sam’s seeing friends out here, he’s too cheap to add on some international data plan, and we wanna surprise him with the news.”

Taken with the game, Cas anchored his grip right at the base of Dean’s throat and gave it a light, teasing squeeze. “I see. We can work out the small details of his trip on the drive.” His smirk was devilish because—

Dean’s jaw had dropped, he was panting—his own hands flew up to wrap around Cas’ wrist, to encourage him and— 

When Cas tightened his grip, ever-so-slightly, he tried and failed to stop from writhing, bucking up—Dammit!

“You wanna play rough this morning?” Cas hummed, his other hand carding through Dean’s hair. “Here I thought we were on a schedule…”

“Here, I thought you were gonna be an excellent husband, but—”

Oh, Dean challenging him made all Hell break loose.

That morning, Cas was an _outstanding_ husband, indeed.

\---------------------------

All the military training, specials ops, undercover work had kicked in driving through downtown Detroit and traveling through the tunnel, but the second Windsor was visible—once the sky opened up and the soil was a distance he could sprint over—

That’s when Dean’s confidence wavered. Butterflies turned into angry wasps buzzing around rampant under the surface of his cool exterior because—  
  
For the very first time, he had something to lose. This was bigger than himself. Securing his ‘asset’ wasn’t the goal, the mission wasn’t complete when he crossed the finish line. Jumping this hurdle was the factor that determined his future.  
  
While his performance had many consequences, who it wholly impacted was the love of his life, and Cas was now part of him—who he planned on spending the rest of his life with—they couldn’t do that, hell, to prevent them from separation even hinged on _making it over—_

There was a firm _thwak_ on his thigh, and when Dean looked down, he realized Cas was gripping his leg as he often did (maybe a little friggin aggressive, but who cared!) in a show of support.

With his focus forward, Cas heaved, “Ready to see your brother, honey?”

“Never call me that again. No one’s gonna buy that shit.”

“Agreed.”

Dean’s window was already rolling down when he pulled forward to the booth, Customs Agent waiting with an outstretched arm. “Passports and reason for your visit?”  
  
He’d pre-opened the ID pages together and once they were in the man’s hand, Dean was free to proudly flash his ring. “We’re headed out passed Toronto to surprise my brother! Finally took the plunge and got hitched to my co-pilot, here!”  
  
Cas forced a smile and waved, under his breath he asked, “You didn’t inform me we were pilots as part of our cover—”  
  
Yelling to drown Cas out, Dean wondered,”Do you need a marriage license, too? I don’t know how that works—with name changes, and all—” and began digging around for the certificate, hissing to Cas, “dude, think before you speak—”  
  
Before Dean could find the paper, Cas piped up, “Yes! I’ve sacrificed myself, forsook my family ties to become an extension of him—I’m told it’s a romantic gesture. Perhaps the legal dealings are already in the system? I’m positive I filled out the correct documents, no matter how intoxicated I was last night,” with a bright, friendly smile and Dean internally cringed.  
  
God...this hurt more than getting shot...   
  
The guy wouldn’t give them much to work with in the way of tells. He was a professional, trained and experienced, stone-faced and icy in a way Dean understood: this was part of the job. “I’ll check the system.”  
  
“Ah, here we go!” Dean finally found the paper! He turned back around to show the man, announcing, “Hard evidence of Krushic turned Winchester!” at the _ exact _ same time Castiel said, “Novak, N-O-V-A-K, no C-”  
  
They both froze like statues, forgetting how to breathe, unsure if their hearts were beating.  
  
Dean’s fist clenched down on the paper, his arm stiffened half-way to the booth—hanging in limbo. The words died on Cas’ lips but he remained there, leaning forward, his plastered, unmoving smile taking a turn from inviting to eerie.  
  
Fuck, fuck, fuck—   
  
Dean hadn’t looked at the passport! Castiel used two—one was for any and all above-board work and the other was used when flying under the radar. The masterfully created fuckin’ untraceable _ fake _ he used when necessary. _ Butitwasfake. _  
  
If they confiscated it, no matter how well it scanned, they’d find out sooner or later the name and some details didn’t match up.  
  
They could be delivering silver-platter rock-solid proof of shady business and implicate themselves! Why hadn’t Dean glanced at the name?!  
  
“What the fuck is that!?” Dean shouted, wildly flinging his arm in the direction of the passport the man was staring at, watching Cas’ eyes doubled in size. “I thought you said your divorce was final!”  
  
When Cas squinted a little, he knew this moment would make or break them—shitshitshit—   
  
Dean turned his back on the Officer, giving the appearance he was squaring off with his husband, but what he needed was to get Cas on the same page. Mouthing ‘play along’ and seeing the flicker of understanding in Cas’ eye gave Dean hope.  
  
Even when there was jackshit hopeful about Dean’s tone when he roared, “Was last night bullshit? Fuckin’ _pointless_? I’m sick of you lying to me!”  
  
“As if you’re so innocent,” Cas scoffed, rolling his shoulders, matching his posture. “The only reason you want to see your brother is because he’s promised a belated bachelor party. Yes, I read the texts. All of them!”  
  
Gasping with shock and scandal, Dean’s escalation turned shrill, “_You _ had the balls to go through _ my _ phone? Even when _ you’re _ the one with the “ex-husband”—yer not gonna trust me?!”  
  
“Yes, _ ex-_husband. Ex! You’re the one guilty of a very current, real-time _stripper problem_!”  
  
“Are you calling me a slut?!”  
  
“Oh, wait—did I _ finally _ witness the flash of a goddamn _ lightbulb_, you dim—!”  
  
“Excuse me! Gentlemen! I have bad news!” The words cut through the air sharper than any weapon they’d faced down, their faces flushed and their blood ran cold.  
  
Neither wanted to face the music, but finally—slowly and sluggishly, they twisted back to face him and their inevitable fate.  
  
Except, the once cold, indifferent man taking their information appeared genuinely apologetic when returning their passports.  
  
With a heavy sigh, he took a moment to look them in the eyes. Delivering the news, “I’m sorry to say, both of you are in the system. As Mr. Winchester. Please, give it a chance. Work through your marital problems instead of throwing in the towel. Too many kids today give up. Counseling really did wonders for me and my wife,” like a sheriff would deliver a death notification.  
  
Both Castiel and Dean watched—in disbelief and awe—as the gate opened before their eyes and they carefully settled back into their seats, wondering: was this real?  
  
“Drive safe,” the man returned to his post, but not before wagging his finger and saying to Dean, “I’d strongly suggest that you cancel your bachelor party.”  
  
“Yes, sir.” He nodded like he was addressing a superior, stammering out, “No strippers, sir. Never again.”  
  
As Dean shifted into drive and the car lurched forward, he—   
  
Now way. He couldn’t believe what was happening. It fucking worked! Both were still nervy and anxious until they rolled onto a highway.   
  
Only then, Cas felt it was important to assure, “I don’t think you’re a slut.”  
  
“I know, babe...I know. We did good. _Real _ good.” Saying those words felt amazing! “I guess the best way to slip on past is annoying people until they don’t wanna deal with you, huh?”  
  
“Yes, I know.” Cas was proud when he announced, “That’s how I got rid of the FBI, too. Apparently, no one can handle you and I for more than a minute.”  
  
“Wait? You talked _ about us _ to the FBI—? You know what. No. Just...I’m gonna enjoy cruising, that’s all.”  
  
“See?” Like he was proving a point, Cas waved his hand to emphasize, “We can hardly handle each other for more than a minute. We’re the perfect defense mechanism.”  
  
Dean would’ve poked holes in his theory, but then it would’ve proved Cas’ point. So he zipped his lips and really did enjoy the moment. He was friggin adorable, preening and happy with his conclusion, and Dean would let him have it. They earned this.  
  
  
\-----------------------------------------

  
Updates from both Charlie and Sam would roll in the moment they became available, and while each mile (or rather, kilometer) between them and the United States was another benchmark, every time a phone lit up, Dean’s assumed the worst.  
  
Yesh, he kept feeling phantom vibrations even when the phone they were using (Dean had installed untraceable software on both their devices but would rather implicate himself, if worse came to worse) wasn’t on him.  
  
So far, they were in the clear. But so far, well...they weren’t far.  
  
It wasn’t until about two hours into the drive when Cas finally asked, “Do you know where we’re headed?”  
  
Believe it or not, Dean was surprised he asked so quickly. He thought maybe Cas’ interest would perk up somewhere around the four-hour mark.  
  
For as impatient and spontaneous as he was, the spontaneous part worked _ with Dean _ instead of against, Cas went wherever the wind took them and didn’t care about structure until it became a pressing matter for him at that exact moment.  
  
When they were driving aimlessly, post-press conference, he never asked where they were. It was funny, he’d nit-pick at fine-details—if they stopped at a gas station and his Coke was in a bottle instead of a can, he might throw it out the window—but the difference between a swanky hotel in downtown Vegas and squatting in a farmhouse in Utah was irrelevant.  
  
“Eventually, north. But we gotta cut away from the city.” Dean was still antsy, wondering if he made a mistake crossing prematurely. “I hollered at Sam and Charlie, knowing we’d be on the road for a while before cutting up, so if they could find us some isolated nature preserve below the 60th parallel, that’d be awesome.”  
  
“Ah, I see.” Something in Cas’ tone provoked Dean to demanded, — “Ah, —_what_?”  
  
“You’re second-guessing your decisions. Chastising yourself for back-tracking, when the best option for speed to leave DC would’ve been an immediate north through New York. Now, you’re repeating the same loop on the other side of Lake Eerie, barreling us through populated land—even Toronto, when it could’ve been avoided completely.” Cas nodded in understanding, making Dean groan loudly and knocking his skull against the headrest. “That’s understandable.”  
  
“Why, thank you, Cas—”  
  
Apparently, he was on a roll and in a chatty-ass mood, pointing out, “Oh. Even cutting across in Port Huron would’ve saved us some time. They have the Blue Water Bridge.”  
  
“Yep.” He popped the ‘p,’ trying to control himself. “There _is_ a bridge.” 

“The best option, if we’d wanted to stay on the map longer, would’ve been the Mackinac Bridge!” It was like Cas suddenly remembered, like they had the fuckin’ option of turning around?! “Northern Michigan would’ve been an easy drive, and crossing Sault Ste Marie opens right into Ontario. We’d be in a nature reserve in two-hundred kilometers—”  
  
“Dammit, Cas!” Dean redirected his slap away from the horn to the half-opened visor at the last second. “I get it! There were better ideas! I fucked it up, and—”  
  
“No, you didn’t. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.” He appeared genuinely perplexed by Dean's outburst. “Fleeing fugitives would’ve crossed in New York. We have no connection, no personal link or business in Port Huron. Time’s limited, the longer we remained here, the greater the risk.”  
  
After a double-take, Dean felt dumb asking, “Wait, what—?”  
  
“Perhaps the pressure you’re under is beginning to make your brain swell. You need to trust your instincts—when have they failed you in the past?” He sunk down in the passenger seat and kicked his feet up on the dashboard. “This _ makes sense_: whether we got married, whether we’re seeing your brother doesn’t matter—if I wanted to visit Canada, we’d stay the night in Detroit. Of course, we’d visit Toronto, and yes—like any other tourists on Earth—we’d see Niagara Falls before coming back home. Only, we don’t go back home.”  
  
“Take a breath. This route looks like any other trip we’ve taken.” Cas reached out to ruffled the hair at the nape of Dean’s neck. “Only this time, we don’t have to look over our shoulder and worry about others or cameras. Soon, we’ll just...vanish.”  
  
“I knew that,” Dean quickly returned, but found himself leaning into Cas’ touch—yeah...that felt nice. Maybe his brain was swelling but Cas worked as an ice pack, calming him, and he knew they were gonna be fine.  
  
Until he began to chuckle, recollecting back to their beginning, and Cas’ brow furrowed.   
  
“Only you, sweetheart...only you…” Before his husband could give him shit, Dean snatched up his wrist and kissed his knuckles, holding Cas’ hand against his face. “Never would’ve thought this would be it. Our adventure is, truly, into the unknown.”  
  
“I’ve taught you an excellent life lesson.” There it was: Cas’ wicked smile. “Now you’ll learn to think critically before accepting invitations.”  
  
“From _ you_. And only you.” Snorting and rolling his eyes, Dean amended, “Well, I’m kinda stuck with you...forever. Probably isolated, in the middle of nowhere, with no human contact or others to ‘accept invitations from,’ so there’s that…”  
  
“Another example of your failed critical thinking.” Cas leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “I rest my case.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I love you, too.” Conceding was easy.  
  
Dean truly needed this support, the light, playful banter put him at ease. And Cas’ whispered return of love in his ear gave him the kind of boost to feel unstoppable. The mesmerizing stroke of Cas’ fingertips running through his hair, keeping a steady beat with the music, was friggin awesome, too.  
  
Even when Cas complained, “You need a haircut,” Dean couldn’t stop himself from dissolving into giggles, snickering, “If _ that’s _ on your priority list, suck a dick.”  
  
“Don’t tempt me, I can easily make it one.”  
  
\--------------------------------------  
  
When they were given word that the FBI had ID’d the body, both Dean and Cas were waiting for the inevitable. For the casework to break open, for the theories to begin flying but something strange happened. While it was live among law enforcement, something was blocking it from the media.  
  
Usually, nothing would stop a reporter from getting their grubby little meathooks into any number of official’s pockets. You could buy a name or source to spin on a story for fifty bucks, and Charlie said there was pressure a-plenty from the press, but they were holding their own.  
  
And while they didn’t expect their luck to last, they didn’t need it to.  
  
The question was never “are we there yet,” it was “do they know yet?”  
  
No one knew.  
  
But he and Cas were almost there.  
  
After conferring, weighing the pros and cons, Sam and Charlie had given them a location to explore. It was inconspicuous and completely off the grid. A small town close enough to load up on resources, somewhere no one would recognize them, and far enough away they’d see a tail for miles.  
  
When Charlie dropped the coordinates and Cas plugged them in, Dean balked and demanded, “How the fuck do we get there?!”  
  
She cackled and was quick to shift the blame, “You wanted middle of nowhere, I provided. You’re on prime lakefront property! And don’t worry, I was the one concerned for your well-being but Sam insisted you’d be fine. I heard a rumor that _someone _ tracked their travel miles on their last mission overseas in an attempt to prove to their brother how physically fit they were? Sam said you can hike it out.”  
  
“Tell Sam to eat me!” Dean snipped into the radio before tossing it into Cas’ lap.  
  
A few minutes passed in silence before Cas asked, “You...hike? I’m having trouble visualizing it. You don’t move much unless you’re under threat, or we’ve—”  
  
“You can eat me, too!”  
  
“Oh. I see…”  
  
With his lips pursed and his brows narrowed, Dean waited for the rest of Cas’ jab. When it didn’t come, he looked over to see Cas watching the scenery pass out the window.  
  
“Wait, that’s it?” The lack of a comeback felt...weird. “You turning over a new leaf or something?”  
  
“Hm?” Cas was the picture of innocence when their eyes met. “I assumed that was an invitation. Would you like to have a say or give me input as to how I plan on eating y—”  
  
“Never mind, next time I’ll stop when I’m ahead.”  
  
Grinning and shrugging his shoulders, he returned, “Don’t say I didn’t offer.”  
  
\-----------------------------  
  
After three days of driving, but they were nearly there!  
  
Well, in the general area. Facing down a forest. Operating on blind faith and crossing their fingers that, on the other side, was the waterfront Charlie and Sam promised them was there.  
  
Well, it was a bay, to be exact. They were routed through the small town to case it out and see if this was a real possibility. After departing and driving into the middle of nowhere, _ how _ they reached the bay was up to them.  
  
If Dean was in _ his _ car? He would’ve parked along the side of the dirt road, sucked it up and spent a good week on foot.  
  
Luckily, he didn’t have the same respect for Cas’ Muder Mobiles.  
  
At first they drove on the outskirts, along old logging trails off the beaten path before reaching protected land.   
  
After some crazy bumps and dangerous navigating, aiming towards what looked to be a long-overgrown trail, followed by a small field, they were already much deeper in the woods than they had any business being.  
  
Something flashed like a camera bulb—at the same time they asked, “Did you see that?” and “What was it?” daring to feel flickers of excitement.  
  
They honed in to study the horizon and confirmed, yes, it was the sun reflecting off the glass-like water off in the distance.  
  
Not long after, the brush was too thick. Dean knew he’d risked too much between car damage and tracks already, and he pulled over to park the car.  
  
“This is gonna feel awesome—” Dean moaned in excitement, stretching out his cramped, aching legs, sucking in the fresh air and arching his back. He and Cas pulled on their backpacks and wordlessly grabbed fallen branches to disguise the vehicle before leaving it behind.  
  
“If it was a little warmer, I’d dive in that friggin water!” At the last minute, he turned back around to grab the satellite phone (he _would_ be the idiot to forget!) and complained, “I feel gross and smell.”  
  
Already parting the brush ahead of him, Cas barely took notice. “There’s no correct answer I can respond with.”  
  
“Huh. Yeah, that’s probably wise.”  
  
For about three miles, they kept up a steady pace. Except, the closer they got, their paths unintentionally began veering—curving towards something catching their eye. Something beyond the treeline that _ wasn’t _ supposed to be there.  
  
But...it was. Through wary and cautious glances they spread out and moved with the greenery instead of against it, blending in. On approach, Dean was worried about Cas’ ability to handle himself—he’d choose brute force and the direct approach any day—but considering Dean was battle-field trained and Cas was a civilian—  
  
He kept up really fucking well.  
  
Once they were in range, light steps turned to silent feet, with quicker timing. Both dropped to their haunches right outside the treeline, and they waited.  
  
For a sound. For some motion. For _ anything_.  
  
Once their reasonable watch turned into a ridiculously _ unreasonable _ lengthy pause, they relaxed and got to their feet.  
  
Walking out from the clearing onto lush, tall grass, Dean brought the sat phone to his mouth and radioed over to Charlie. “I thought you said this land was all barred off for wildlife. Char, I asked for a nature reserve.”  
  
“What? What are you talking about?” She demanded instantly. “I mean, I can’t promise there aren’t flippin’ hikers or kayaks in the bay.”  
  
“I’m staring at a fuckin’ house. Yeah, it’s falling apart and I doubt anyone’s here, but people build shit here.” He was exasperated and so damn tired!  
  
After all that travel—what, did they show up for _ nothing_?  
  
He wasn’t happy about Charlie’s lack of an answer, either. Cas was about to see a different side of him, because if there was one person he felt a-okay getting straight up bitchy-fussy with while grumpy, it was Charlie. That shit wasn’t pretty.  
  
Before he made that leap, Dean took a deep breath and called back, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to yell, I’m hanrgy or somethin’—”  
  
“No, I don’t get it. I checked, double-checked, and just checked _again_! There’s no way there’s a house there, it doesn’t make sense. Where the hell are you?” She sounded flustered, announcing, “I need to call Sam.”  
  
After she abruptly disappeared, Dean gestured forward and asked in bewilderment, “I’m not crazy, right?”  
  
“It’s a fuckin’ house.”  
  
“Well...might as well explore while we’re here.”  
  
They had nothing better to do, did they? The property was most definitely abandon—as far as he could tell. And what was the worst that could happen? Someone freaked out, told them to step away from their shack and they said they took a wrong turn down a hiking path?  
  
God, that kind of ‘trouble’ would be refreshing!


	12. Chapter Eleven

Their once-over of the property didn’t turn up much information besides what was in front of them. The cabin was old and unkempt, creaking from the elements, the roof collapsed on one side from hard winters but the structure was sound. The materials matched all the surrounding woods, Dean would lay down money that whoever lived here visited and put down roots, living off the land.  
  
Without signs of a modern-day presence—no ATV tracks, beer cans, fuckin’ needles or firepits—the cabin, small shed and dock (with a half-dozen planks still holding on for dear life) were untouched—a cut-out in time.  
  
The static of the radio may have startled them from their first real second of peace—but it was the information relayed that changed everything.  
  
It took Charlie and Sam a while to put the pieces together, but when they did it all made sense.  
  
Between her connections and his database access, they were able to track the movements of an ex-pastor turned Doomsday enthusiast turned fucking fugitive, when he fled the States after stealing every cent he could carry from his own church.  
  
In Canada, he was compelled to preach his own gospel on street corners warning about The Cold War. With every street corner, he kept moving further north and the further north—less people listened. By then, all he did was scare the shit out of locals until he fell off the map.  
  
Give or take a few hundred kilometers from their current location.  
  
It tracked, and a small fact sticking out in that guy's timeline happened to entice Dean like a kid on Christmas morning.  
  
“Cas...think! What was all the rage during The Cold War? Even if this guy was spooky on the local scale, Canada still had the tools available for prepping!” He could barely contain his glee, “I bet you that storm door we passed wasn’t a storm door! Oh my God!”  
  
He turned around and started sprinting back to the edge of the property, because how perfect would it be?! What were the chances they’d find a place like this in the middle of nowhere?  
  
Except—fuck, now that he'd grabbed hold of the handled, he was having a hell of a time getting those doors open. It didn’t make sense, after adjusting his hands he confirmed, yeah, he had a good grip—   
  
Dean looked over his shoulder and noticed Cas still hadn’t moved.  
  
“Hey! What are you doing back there?! Come on! This can be our secret weapon if we ever have to deal with a worst-case scenario!” He grunted and shuffled around, trying to get better leverage, but—they just...wouldn’t give! “Cas!” Giving his worn-down fists a rest and shaking them out, he asked in a patronizing voice, “What do crazy Americans do to hide from nuclear war and an incoming Apocalypse?”  
  
“Is this a movie reference? Like the one where you get a day out of the year to kill your enemies?” Very quickly, he realized he was dead wrong, but Dean watched that lightbulb finally flash. “Oh, yes! It’s like Black Friday! When violence breaks out at Walmart and people hoard goods, saving themselves by evacuating or taking cover underground.”  
  
“Okay, _woah_—you just went from The Purge, to BOGOs, to Emergency Hurricane Protocol and finally _ kinda _ where I want you.” Rolling his tongue to create a drum-roll sound, and with the flurry of jazz hands, Dean proclaimed, “It’s a fallout shelter! Ta-da! A _ bunker_! There could be hidden treasure! Now, move yer ass and help me open this damn thing, because if the cops come, it’s you that’s getting shoved down there—so we need to make sure it’s in good condition!”  
  
“Oh.” It was clear, Cas didn’t share his thirst for adventure.  
  
But he proved helpful in other ways.  
  
“It may help if you unlock it. I’ll look for bolt cutters.”  
  
Well, at least Dean now knew why he couldn’t get it open…  
  
\-------------------------  
  
The whole ‘locked-shut’ thing turned this adventure on its head, and the added layer of mystery suddenly made Cas a _ whole lot _ more interested.  
  
Maybe there was more to the story and this guy wasn’t just running from nukes, maybe they had more in common than Dean thought and he was running from someone. Someone who locked him down here.  
  
Once they gained access to the fallout shelter and climbed in (navigating by way of the flashlight they’d found in a small shack), what greeted them beyond the ladder and hunched inside the sturdy, cement walls was most likely their host.  
  
“_Jesuschrist—!_” Dean balked and fell back a step—not prepared to see a goddamn body. “Uh, well...since he’s, like, partially mummified that means the seal’s good, right?” He cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure after screaming like a little girl.  
  
“Agreed. It also confirms this area has been undisturbed for a long time,” Cas plowed ahead, now fascinated with the space. “The coordinates Sam and Charlie worked hard on must have merit. I’m inclined to believe them about being safe here.”  
  
There was one swipe of Dean’s light that didn’t bounce off a wall—it kept going.  
  
Huh. Running with his instincts, he did a double-take and followed it. The shelter was expansive and sturdy, but there was a pathway that someone either broke out of or was using as an expansion.  
  
A piece had been carved out of the far wall, and when Dean crouched to see where it led—he was met with open tunnel. It might be a tight squeeze to make it to the other side, but the tunnel opened up—beyond the crumbled wall laid more space nearly as wide as the bunker itself. This guy had lots of room after breaking soil to work inside this cavern, building the shelter to be whatever size he wanted.  
  
“Hey, I think we can get creative with our security system. Make a Batcave.”  
  
After looking over his shoulder, Dean paused—   
  
And all his visions of a Batcave kinda went to the wayside.  
  
Here, Dean was. So excited about exploring the bunker's potential. Now, he was more intrigued by Cas digging through the cabinets of the pantry, checking the stability of the ladder and testing out how bouncy the prison-like mattresses were.  
  
Dean snickered and shook his head. “Why am I not surprised you can still be gung-ho about Real Estate when there’s a rotting corpse, laying there?”  
  
“What’s the correct protocol?” Cas turned suddenly and hit Dean in the face with the beam of his flashlight, blinding him. “You should've be the one to point fingers. Don’t act like we’ve always been timely in our deliveries.”  
  
“Cas—” he groaned loudly, extending his name into a warning, knowing they were both road-weary, exhausted and his sassy husband was winding up...   
  
They’d both had their moments, on and off. Here they were, faced with potential, a great thing, and this was usually around the time one of them would need a time-out.  
  
If it wasn’t Dean, that could only be one other person. It was too late to walk himself back, hell—he couldn’t even see Cas but he could feel his angry-cat hackles rising because they were supposed to be leaving the past in the past—right?  
  
And, naturally, Dean said the worst thing he could’ve said, his brain wasn’t working and the grumbled words either amounted to a challenge or what Cas would’ve assumed to be an attempt to shut him up, when he said, “Don’t start, it’s not the same thing and—”  
  
“Oh? Who wanted to ‘finish this episode’ and, due to complaints of an aging back, didn’t bother to remove the body off the living room rug? Tell me, whose idea was it to ‘think out of the box’ when we were snowed in at that private lodge? Oh, of course, it was you and Charlie who’d rather “crunch numbers” and chart out the mathematical trajectories of ski hills and which was best suited to launch a _ human man _ down to the _ resort_. All because _ you _ didn’t want to shovel snow and Charlie had access to a drone!”   
  
Oh, wow, Cas was_ both _letting him know how he felt and reminding Dean of some good times...  
  
Although, it surprised Dean these incidents things that had building up as ammo—he swallowed hard as Cas stomped closer. Nope. He should never have opened his mouth, at all!  
  
“Bodies have never bothered you in the past. You still eat, nap, fuck in their presence. Christ, you only deal with others if they’re unresponsive—any time one of our foes has stirred, you’re the first to fix the issue. I only wish I had statistics on the brain damage you’ve caused them.” Cas huffed at the afterthought, “Or_ you've suffered—_sinceI can’t begin to count the times you’ve tripped and fallen over them—from utter sloth.”  
  
“Woah, Cas…” Dean paused for a second and knew: if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em. Dryly and sarcastically, he wondered, “How ‘bout you tell me how you really feel?”  
  
The drama of Cas’ scoff was bar-none, and thank God, he’d dropped the light away from Dean’s face just in time to miss his grin.  
  
“I feel like…” he tested out the phrasing, and decided to summarize, “your sensitivity is unwarranted. The only difference between this man and what we deal with is the smell.”  
  
Cas hummed in thought, as though he’d reached his own consensus when he vocalized, “That, and seeing as how this could be our longtime residence, I would’ve appreciated him being alive at the Home Showing. I have an extensive list of qualifications that need to be met before I purchase a property.”  
  
A louder snort of laughter got caught somewhere between Dean’s throat and his nose. “Oh yeah? That guy’s such an asshole. Dying, and shit. When I’ve got questions about this tunnel.”  
  
Dean didn’t need light to hear the mischief in Cas’ voice. “My thoughts, exactly. His rude behavior depreciates the house and bunker. I’m sure we could get it for a steal.”  
  
“Please, don’t tell me this is how you’ve ‘acquired’ all your homes?” He was only half-joking...but at least he wasn’t thinking about a dead guy anymore. He was thinking about his husband’s twisted sense of humor and, after a smack to his ass in the dark nearly made him jump out of his skin, Cas' newfound carrot was clear: “A tunnel, you say?”  
  
“Hey!” He chased Cas down for retaliation, watching him push through the nooks and crannies and jump over to the other side without so much as looking. “Wait for me!”  
  
The one great thing (that maybe took a while) for Dean to accept, but he now found solace in? He wasn’t afraid of ghosts or assassins, or the FBI—he’d joined his life with the most dangerous person he knew. That, by extension, put him at the top of the food chain. He was kind of an honorary Queen of the Jungle—or whatever!  
  
“Oh no, is that another…” In less than fifty yards, Dean was cringing all over again when the edge of his light picked up what looked like shoes—judging from their positioning it indicated they were linked to legs, and—  
  
Cas’ hand clamped over the top his to seize control of his flashlight, halting and then redirecting it. Just as quickly, he took control of Dean’s pace, his path, by hooking his fingers through the belt loop on his hip.  
  
“Why don’t you put a friggin collar on me, while yer at it…” Dean grumbled under his breath, but went along.  
  
“It would do you a lot of good to listen to me one of these days. Especially, when I made a point to address the smell.” As casual, as casual can be, they continued along the tunnel behind the sealed up-bunker and Cas concluded, “There’s at least four more.”  
  
While his first instinct was to explode into curses, he knew any demand would echo and deafen them as the passage grew more narrow. And, naturally, when Dean’s legs locked up at the thought of a possible mass fucking grave ahead—his husband a freaky cadaver dog—Cas yanked him forward before he broke stride.  
  
“If you’re bothered, wouldn’t it be better to get this over with? I don’t want you losing sleep, wondering. Who knows, there may be more to it than the lock sealing them inside,” Cas sounded…._too_ excited. He fucking would. “Perhaps, the tide came in and flooded the tunnel when they were trapped, drowning them. Or maybe there’s noxious gas. A poison in the soil?” Dammit, he sounded thrilled. “You’re right, this is quite the adventure.”  
  
“And here I thought it was just me who wanted to live here. All this death makes you a smitten school girl…” Dean, once more, found himself asking one question…  
  
Why?  
  
He blew through his lips and gave up, knowing he’d never win. “Just another Tuesday afternoon…”  
  
Was it his imagination, or was Cas...skipping? Fuckin’ hell….  
  
\--------------  
  
Somewhere along their journey of the property an unusual sense of optimism set into both of them, allowing them to set their backpacks near the shed to explore different areas without any hinderances.  
  
The running joke about their Prime Real Estate continued, and with that idea in mind, they paired pens with paper and jotted down notes as they went. Ones they’d share only if, and only after, they finished scouring every square inch and made sure it was safe.  
  
That their dream could turn out to be more than fiction, if the things on those lists could become a reality.  
  
They poked around in the shed, spent as much time in the bunker and additional tunnel as Dean could handle (Cas could set up shop down there for the next ten years) and returned to the cabin again.  
  
After some prodding, poking (kicking, hanging from the rafters and tough love) they were pretty damn impressed by the level of carpentry some crazy-ass, embezzling End Days preacher was able to pull off. It was sturdy, sound and with a little TLC, both he and Cas felt confident it was possible to put it back together again.  
  
With Sam and Charlie on call, Dean felt no shame in phoning for weather reports to see how long they had to flip the thing before the elements became an issue. He figured they had the bunker as back-up, or...front-up—if he asked Cas to clear out the welcome party, the fallout shelter could be their reconstruction shelter.  
  
...Dean really needed the smell gone, first.  
  
While they had briefly walked the shoreline in tactical mode, Dean wanted to revisit in another capacity.  
  
When he couldn’t ignore his groaning stomach for a second longer (and Cas couldn’t stop pointing it out), they retrieved their bags and decided to sit down on the water’s edge to have their ‘dinner.’  
  
Dean laughed as he dug through his bag, pulling out bags of chips, beef jerky and a mix-and-match of gas station snacks. “We really gotta figure out a food situation, head into town, get groceries. Somethin’, dude.” He tossed a water bottle, peanuts and Doritos at Cas before tearing into his can of Pringles.  
  
“Mm, we have an endless freshwater supply—what we need fishing gear,” Cas pulled out the crumpled list in his pocket. “If I’m not wrong, the water temperature is the same as a refrigerator. I highly doubt anything exciting happened in the tunnel, but there is a reservoir. To stay hidden, we could use the bunker for bulk goods and the shelter of the tunnel’s water supply to keep what we need cold in some kind of ice box. Constant electricity isn’t essential, a generator would suffice—or better yet, solar panels...if we can find a way to transport them—”  
  
“Dude!” Dean hadn’t meant to cut him off, but he was doing a double-take. “You’re feeling this right now, aren’t you?”  
  
Chewing through a mouth of preservatives and shitty snack food, Cas tried to pronounce, “And you’re not?”  
  
“Well...yeah.” He shrugged, but still wouldn’t let himself get too carried away in a good thing. “You mind? If I look at your list?”  
  
Before he could finish the sentence, the paper was in his hand.  
  
It wasn’t like Dean’s, that was for sure.  
  
His own paper was a collection of notations he’d made along the way, of things he liked that they could fix. Of jobs that needed to be done. Of tasks they’d need to revisit to make it work. Because he _wanted it to work_, he wanted to show Cas—to prove to Cas—they didn’t need to search any further than here.  
  
Cas took a much different approach: he’d listed off all the things they needed for survival and safety. He'd ranked them in order of importance the moment he’d gotten the piece of paper and pen.  
  
Whenever _Dean_ pulled out his rumpled paper (that happened to be the back of a gas receipt) he was writing _things he liked_, that he could make better. Justifications, reasons, a wish-list of making a place for them.  
  
Cas was _crossing off_ items.  
  
Every must-have, everything he needed in a dwelling: it had a check mark next to it. It looked like Cas had made up his mind, and the proof was here—  
  
Hell, he was one step ahead of Dean! Some of these items he was guessing on...Cas apparently, had already solved the problems, he had answers on how to fill in the blanks, he’d found or figured out a way to get all the resources they needed for a legitimate life, and—  
  
A loud splash jarred Dean from his daze.  
  
He’d been so engrossed and captivated by Cas saying ‘yes’ to him, all over again, that he’d completely missed his husband disrobing and jumping in the damn lake!  
  
“The hell! Isn’t it freezing?” Dean’s jaw dropped, watching Cas happily swim around without a care in the world.  
  
As he paddled, dove under the surface, and popped back up—flicking the hair from his face—Dean felt envy at how free he looked. It had been a while since he’d seen Cas back to his old antics. Allowed to do whatever he wanted. Give in to his every urge.  
  
“Of course, it’s cold—that’s the point, it feels wonderful,” he called back. “I can still feel the cling from the casino. The stale air from days of driving. Fever, from your blasting the heat whenever you believe I’m asleep and I won’t talk back. I’ve never understood how your body temperature runs so hot—I know, I feel it—but you _ insist _ you’re cold if the room is below 75 degrees.”  
  
He cracked up and shook his head, slowly walking down to the sand. “You ever think ‘my body temperature’ runs hot because you’re the goddamn furnace? Maybe I’m catchin’ _ your _ fever?”  
  
Treading water and smirking impishly, Cas wondered, “Would you mind if you were?”  
  
“About as much as you staying asleep and letting me pump the heat when you could’ve complained.” Dean fell to his haunches and crouched down, “I was worried I’d have to sell you this idea, but I’m figuring out this is your slice paradise.”  
  
“How so?” he tilted his head, slowly swimming towards the dock.  
  
Dean listed the reasons on his fingers, “You never have to wear clothes. You don’t have to deal with people again. We’ve even got you a Murder Dungeon starter-set, in a prime location where no one can hear ‘em scream! Primed and ready to make it your own.”  
  
“I agree, it almost sounds like paradise.” Cas absently pulled at the dock, swinging against the edge—it looked like he was checking from the water how well the structure was still holding together.  
  
The thing that had Dean hung-up, he voiced: “Almost? What can we do to make it better?”  
  
“No, you misunderstood.” Cas dared to jump up onto the wood, Dean a half-second from shouting at him to stop—  
  
But when it held his weight and Cas skillfully balanced between the boards, jumping from one to another to head back to shore—it proved yet another additional bonus. The dock wouldn’t need to be scraped, only repaired.  
  
Dean shook off the stress the second Cas made it to solid land, and forgot they were having a discussion. “Uh—sorry. What did I get wrong this time?”  
  
“You forgot one of the reasons. Of why this _ is _ paradise.” He opted to veer off towards Dean instead of his clothes, his chilled, wet hands a surprise as one rested against his neck, the other cupped his cheek. “You’re here with me—we get to do all those things, together.”  
  
Whether it had before or not, Dean was certainly feeling the temperature spike of his blood rushing under Cas’ touch now. He swallowed hard and _tried_ to laugh it off, even if keeping his shit together was next to impossible.  
  
Shaking his head, Dean said, “Damn, I think retirement’s making you go all soft on me, babe—”  
  
Cas’ rumbled, “Would you like me to show you precisely how hard I still am?” made Dean’s spine shoot straight up and tingle. Jesuschrist, he lived for the mischief dancing in Cas’ eyes, but more than that—when Cas whispered, “I love you,” his knees almost gave out.  
  
Cas kissing him was absolutely delicious—his lips were tender, his hands couldn’t decide whether to grab hold of what he wanted, or to hold them where they already where, soaking in this perfect moment—but... it all ended much, much too soon.  
  
The frustrating reminder, “We have work to do before the sun sets,” was something they both could agree with. That didn’t mean either had to like it.  
  
But Dean felt it appropriate to antagonize, “Mm, too tired to put your money where your mouth is—”  
  
“—_Dean—_”  
  
That was a sharp warning. A very, very dangerous warning, to remind him that Cas was a very, very dangerous man.  
  
“Yeah, okay, getting to work, now—!”  
  
\-------------- **  
**  
Dean couldn’t remember the last sunrise he’d watched to see the colors—he was up at dawn, keeping an eye on metal frame work, on blinking lights, shifting shadows, anything that moved in those last-second chances people had to use the night as cover.  
  
Nothing could be more different.  
  
He was slouched on the lawn watching two different, equally stunning views of the sunrise as the colors came to life on the lake. Everything was so vibrant—the stillness of the cool blue cover, endless colors of green as far as the eye could see and right overhead, the richness of the vanishing night sky.  
  
After he soaked in the sight, Dean closed his eyes, feeling the chilled breeze and the warmth of the light—but what brought back memories were the sounds.  
  
Loons. Among the cacophony of birds, he could distinguish the call of loons.  
  
It reminded him of the single camping trip his Dad had whisked he and Sam away on. They’d gone fishing—something they could do in their own backyard, but wow—did he remember it like it was yesterday.  
  
How Sam, even as a kid, knew that Loons were different—he was too smart and didn’t know how to say it right, so what came out was, “They hang out in different groups. Ducks can only be in a flock. But for Loons, you can have a raft, a loomery, a water dance, and an asylum.”  
  
Dean always remembered, not being as smart as Sam, asking, “So...does the Loon chose the asylum, or does the asylum chose the Loon? Like, what if it wants to do the water dance but it’s crazy?”  
  
When all of it got too complex, Dad laughed at them, at all their questions and said, “I think it’s up to the Loon.”  
  
It seemed more appropriate now, than ever. Speaking of, he thought he heard one approaching…  
  
“Morning,” he greeted, before he could even see Cas. “We’re gonna have to figure out a coffee situation, aren’t we?”  
  
Plopping down next to him, Cas decided he’d rather lay his head against Dean’s shoulder and sling an arm around his waist, than answer. God—how was he still so warm? Cas, no matter how much he argued against it, always felt so much warmer, he was the sole reason they hadn’t frozen last night.  
  
It had been a while since Dean had been nothing but pleasantly sore instead of battle-weary. They’d worked the rest of the afternoon to clear enough brush to move the car closer—so they could crowd together in the backseat to sleep that night and begin work around the house in the morning.  
  
This morning was the first time Dean felt comfortable allowing Cas to sleep in by himself. This world of theirs they would soon cultivate was safe enough for Dean to stealthily slip out from Cas’ arms, let him come to in his own time, and soak in nothing but peace.  
  
Enjoying the simple things. Looking forward to what the day may bring.  
  
Whether it was Cas getting to work on the bunker, Dean stripping the garbage and rot from the house before they began their own construction—even a supply run into town. Whatever it was, they had plans, a life to build, nothing but good things ahead of them.  
  
The commitment had been made—having taken steps to break their own ground—getting the vehicle close was labor-intensive, dirty-sweaty work—if they were unsure about this joint, there was no way they would’ve worn themselves to the bone. Hell no, never for a ‘maybe’.  
  
This was happening.  
  
They were happening.  
  
Yesterday’s exhaustion made it feel like Dean was walking through a dream, but refreshed the knowledge hit him hard. Everything that once felt hazy was concrete.  
  
Being present was a double-edged sword. Running on fumes left him slap-happy but now that he was aware, Jesus Christ, he was _ emotional_. Not cool—not at all.  
  
Swallowing hard, Dean shimmied in to get closer, to feel as wrapped up in Cas as he could. Of course, he was trying to fight against any over-the-top tells of what he was experiencing, but he could see his clenched fist and white knuckles. He knew he was trembling and prayed Cas would cut him a break, thinking the crisp morning was at fault.  
  
No such luck.  
  
“Are you going to tell me what’s on your mind?” he whispered, trying not to disturb the peaceful setting. “Or will I have to drag it out of you?”  
  
Dean shrugged, honestly answering, “Haven’t decided yet.”  
  
Most of his internal battle was half-formed thoughts and unruly emotions he hadn’t gotten a handle on. As the silence extended, Dean knew Cas was giving him time to get his act together—but patience was never one of his strong suits.  
  
Maybe he should just go for it…?  
  
“We might have a real shot with this place...but I wanna be greedy. I don’t want a hide-out. I want a place to call home, too. I know I’m asking a lot, hell, I never thought I’d wind up with a husband and now I can’t put on the brakes to be grateful for what I already _ have _ but—”  
  
“Dean, stop.”   
  
Well, he got Cas’ full attention and woke him up better than any cup of coffee would.  
  
Although, he never knew something so abrupt could have soft edges—tender, still, was Cas’ beckoning hold, strengthened around his waist. “You’ve served others your entire life. The very day you could finally, and legally, make your own decisions—on your goddamn birthday—you chose to walk a path of virtue, unwavering loyalty and wholly committed to sacrifice everything, even yourself, for the greater good. And you…” Cas’ eyes fell away and his chuckle sounded off, lacking much amusement—if any.  
  
There wasn’t much for Dean to say, he had no idea where Cas was going, but a shake of his head seemed to rattle his thoughts back into place and he regrouped.  
  
“You were never led astray. Not once. No matter how deep one digs, the shovel would twist you inside out before discovering even a speck of hypocrisy.” Cas’ attention snapped back and the scrutiny of his gaze was a stark contrast to the gentle, sweeping strokes across Dean’s back. “Even I couldn’t entice rebellion.”  
  
“Uh...thanks...but…” Dean’s tongue got tangled up when he was nervous—especially under the weighted pressure that Cas’ attention brought. “That’s sweet, I-I guess.” He loudly cleared his throat and reminded himself: they were past this!  
  
He could do this!  
  
“You sound disappointed, like you wanted me to mess up, huh?” When Dean saw Cas’ eyes narrow (just barely) he knew he was right. He popped a smack of a kiss on Cas’ forehead and this laugh of Dean’s was real. “I swear, I thought you were as smart as you were hot, but maybe I’m givin’ you too much credit and you’re not giving yourself enough. Do you need a play-by-play of the last year? A list of every felony we’ve committed? Together, _ willingly_? You and yer fuckin’ contract—”  
  
“No, you’re incorrect.”  
  
Man, if Dean had a penny for all the times those words came outta Cas’ mouth, his salary would’ve tripled…  
  
What followed was brand-spankin’ new.  
  
“You’re worthy of admiration—the fact you’re both obtuse and stupid can be overlooked—it’s _ this—_” When Cas’ hand rose to his chest—fingers jabbing Dean with the insult he didn’t have time to contest—his thoughts spun in a million directions when the palm softened, Cas concluding, “You always spout nonsense about the greater good, about taking the high road and doing the right thing. Of course, it’s maddening because I don’t understand it, but...during your search for this ‘greater good,’ you became it. You couldn’t do the wrong thing if you tried. And—”  
  
Cas sucked in another breath and closed his grasp, enough to ground himself and connect to Dean without using his fist to assert dominance. He’d let Cas take all the time he needed—Dean was kinda amazed—not a joke—he knew this wasn’t Cas’ thing.  
  
This shit was hard for him to work through—he was much better approaching delicate matters with action, and it came in many, many forms. While well-spoken and ready to deliver a speech, that was directed to the masses.  
  
Stringing words together when he’d gone out of his way to hurt others, to sever ties for the sake of saving their lives was challenging. Cas knew all too well how to cut. How to keep his conversations brief and impersonal—a preventative tactic making damn sure no one sought out his friendship.  
  
He’d conditioned himself to be cold and unpleasant—brusque and offensive.  
  
Lucky for Cas: Dean was obtuse and stupid, right?  
  
“And you’re not just ‘allowed’ to be greedy. I want you to be. I…” Cas tugged him closer, using his relaxed grip to request, not order, Dean forward, even when (fuckin’ duh) there was no other place he’s rather be.  
  
With only inches separating them, Dean could feel the tempting and escalating heat of Cas’ body...but surprisingly, his hushed words were much more enticing: they felt like a dare, but who it was targeting was anyone’s guess—Cas didn’t know, did he? That he’d already began kicking at the dirty, striking a blow like a bullet deep down towards a long-forgotten (and purposefully buried) part of him.  
  
It was probably the same place where Cas’ shovel was headed towards in his search—but if he was digging for dirt, he’d be sorely disappointed. Huh. Maybe he should take Cas at his word. He regretted each and every skeleton and he fought like hell to right the wrong. But...he couldn’t think of a time he’d chosen ‘the wrong.’  
  
Dean swore, if Cas was gearing up for a giant Sayonara—with one last fuck you before he went—Dean was about to rebel, all right—he had a new life and a lot of lost time to make up for.  
  
Until that happened, he closed his eyes and soaked in Cas’ voice—  
  
“I need you to feel free. I understand, you don’t know any other way and that’s why I’ll help you: I never, ever want to see you teeter between the man in uniform and the man who’s never had a chance to pursue his own happiness. Even now, after leaving everything behind to start over—you censored your excitement over the prospect of building our future. Now, are those the actions of a free man?”  
  
The way Cas addressed him rather than...well, chatted him up—there was a method, here. While he projected confidence and spoke with an even tone, he also exuded this... authority. And Dean knew damn well it was meant to make him listen in the way he’d been trained to do—making sure it resonated.  
  
...Even when Dean was hanging from each of Cas’ words just fine on his own.   
  
He was enraptured—feeling every beat of wings of butterflies in his chest—following Cas’ nose as it brushed the hinge of his jaw, the sensation of his lips grazing up and down the length of his throat—_hot damn—_  
  
“Your life of service ended when we were wed. Our contract, the one we made to each other, superseded any of your previous obligations and it went into effective once our pens hit the paper,” Cas stated that black and white fact for what it was and Dean got it.  
  
When laid out plainly, he also understood Cas’ justification: “Tensions were high, we acted in ways that felt natural the next morning and the days have bled together but, Dean—what you’ve fondly called your ‘Blood Contract,’ your ‘singular fine-print regret’ that forced you to sell your soul? It’s null and void. The unfortunate part for you is that while I may not be your boss, you’ve managed to sign your way into an even bigger mess—”  
  
Dean ate up every last bit he was being fed, he needed to hear these things because admitted—maybe deep down, he was still a step behind? He didn’t need another Purple Heart to welcome him into retirement, _ Cas knew _ each detail a soldier’s brain _ needed to hear—_  
  
All the answers, honest rationale and the right reasons to _ finally _ let go—Dean hadn’t seen Cas’ kiss coming from a mile away.  
  
This one wasn’t a quick, stolen moment—like the hit-and-runs they’d settled for as they trekked on and pushed themselves along their journey. Fuck no, this was a head-on collison Cas sped into, Dean let go of the wheel.  
  
Cas’ fingers tangled and tugged through Dean’s overgrown hair. In a flash, he exploited his newfound-grasp and wrenched Dean’s head to the side until their lips fit together perfectly. Perfect, that is, in the way Cas could utterly wreck him with his clever tongue and the dangerous edge of teeth—  
  
It sounded crazy. And by now, Dean _ knew _ crazy.  
  
But right here, out in the open: knowing Cas had a secure hold while cradling his head (and once he regained his wits after the impact of being slammed against a tree)—the intensity of Cas using whatever means necessary to pull them closer made him feel safe—?  
  
They were out in plain sight. There was no plan in place, no cover to duck for, hell, the world could be burning and all Dean knew was the comfort of Cas’ arms.  
  
On the same token, he’d indulged, live in the moment and be whatever Cas wanted him to be. Knowing he was a loose end. Knowing the hand around his neck, that the arms restraining him had ended lives. Dean wouldn’t even see it coming. And yet—he felt loved, untouchable.  
  
He felt safe, optimistic, happy and _ totally _ down for some creativity and, uh, becoming one with nature. Becoming one with Cas. With Nature. Whatever.  
  
All Dean knew was that they were bound to get dirty, that never stopped them before, and—  
  
Even when he was rocking back and forth on his heels, visibly fighting against it, Cas broke free to finish what he started.  
  
Through shuddering breaths, he gathered himself and found his footing by cradling Dean’s cheeks. “You chose this—you chose me this time. The same heartless person shouldering the blame for contract you called a trap, a violation, a nuisance and thorn in your side, one that carried an expiration date. After all that, you wanted an _ extension _ with amended terms. You chose forever.”  
  
Dean broke out into a huge smile, offering a shrug and mimicking back, “Obtuse and stupid always wins.”  
  
“And now you’re going to tell me,” Cas maintained his intensity, yet he’d changed directions—his end game. “What do _ you _ want, Dean?”  
  
_ There _ it was, Cas’ method in the madness, bringing everything full circle.  
  
Dammit, he was good.  
  
This time, he wasn’t shy when he opened up about his longing: “To make a home.”  
  
This time, Dean would take a tip from Cas’ playbook and be impulsive. “To do regular, dumb, normal domestic things and not have to save the world. To have a life, one with you, without stopping to fix someone else’s problem.”  
  
“Yes,” he encouraged, smiling wider. “We can do all of it. No one needs saving any longer. We can begin the renovations as soon as today. With the sound structure, we could tear-down the rot on the west end and start construction, an addition to the house—”  
  
“_Home_, Cas.” Dean didn’t know why, but he urgently corrected him. “I want a home with you...a life with you. I wanna build something that’s ours from the ground up and leave our mark, a place that’s full of good memories, where we spill paint and you steal my drop cloth. ‘Cause I get it now, you’re right, and—thank fuck—it’s finally starting to sink in.” His hands rose to overlap Cas’. “Yeah, it happened fast, we were drunk and didn’t know what we were doing—”  
  
“I’m always right, but—like countless other examples—I have no idea what you’re talking—”  
  
There was no way he could hold back from kissing the confusion off Cas’ face. He chuckled against his lips, and whispered, “I’m sayin’ I’d choose you forever, every time. For as crazy as you make me; you get me—and no one but you could’ve opened up my world. Twice. Get me believing we can have this.”  
  
“We _ will_. And I get a loyal husband beginning to explore his limitless freedom…” Cas mused, his tone sparking again with desire. “Shall I carry you across the threshold to our new home?”  
  
“Hah!” With a quick re-arranging, Dean grabbed Cas’ wrists and playfully swung him around. “What kinda gamble you willing to bet on today?” He wiggled his eyebrows, prompting a very interested Cas with,”The fallout shelter: human remains, unknown toxins and aromatic whiskey dick, or the house: wood splinters and probable tetanus.”  
  
“Hm, while I’m tempted to take you up on a bet—now’s not the time.”  
  
Huh, Cas’ answer was surprising.  
  
Dean noticed he was looking around, searching, but silent. Apparently, it was up to him to snap his husband back to reality. “We have nothing _ but time, _ babe. What are you doing?”  
  
“Something annoying that I’ve never done before,” he grumbled and spurred them into motion, “I’m looking for something...practical.”  
  
Allowing himself to be dragged, Cas’ disdain for the ordinary was both hilarious as it was a foreshadowing of what he knew would be an entertaining and unconventional life. “Okay, what the hell’s got you jonesing for ‘practical?’”  
  
Cas stopped so quickly, Dean nearly rammed into his back, saying, “I don’t want the distraction of tetanus or human remains getting between us. I’m going to show you how much I love you—in ways you’ll never forget.” They were on the move again, Dean’s heart skipping beats in his throat, and he knew damn well the fond, “someday, we’ll work on your sensitivity…” would soon follow.  
  
“I love you,” Dean blurted out, “And I’ll still love you around dead dudes and lockjaw, Cas.”  
  
Wow, that didn’t exactly add zest to the mood, but he still wanted to say it.  
  
“Yes, I know you _ will—_but you don’t _ need to._” His smile turned soft, chuckling, “No matter how much I loathe inconvenience, I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy.”  
  
“Damn, that’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me.” While Dean was being cheeky, he was also being honest. “How does that patch of grass look to you?”  
  
“It looks as though it’ll make me _ exponentially _ happier.” The relief in Cas’ voice was palpable as they both picked up their pace into a sprint.  
  
There it was. The best beginning to retirement Dean could ask for. Becoming one with nature...with Cas...in nature. You know, _after_ the learning curve of fire ants.  
  
Once they'd averted that disaster, starting their first, true venture into the unknown was their best gig yet.


End file.
